Quis Separabit
by Velocity Girl1980
Summary: Harry's expertise on the ever thorny issue of Northern Ireland is called upon once more, reawakening many a bitter memory. Meanwhile, the Peace Process slowly moves ahead but not everyone is willing to follow; not all the bitter past is willing to stay buried.
1. Immovable Object

**Harry's expertise on the ever thorny issue of Northern Ireland is called upon once more, reawakening many a bitter memory. Meanwhile, the Peace Process slowly moves ahead but not everyone is willing to follow; not all the bitter past is willing to stay buried. **

**This is a reworking of a story that was pulled from the site earlier in the year. To avoid repetition, the story has been radically rejigged with new characters introduced.**

Special thanks to **Antonia Caenis** for extra information on Harry's early army career.

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><p><span><strong>Chapter One: Unstoppable Force<strong>

"…_the enemy strikes; vengeance for the dead becomes an ethic for the living, bloodshed begets further bloodshed; the wheel turns, the generations tread and tread and tread."_

_(Seamus Heaney, notes on 'Beowulf'. 1999)_

**January, 1976. Crossmaglen, South Armagh.**

Snowflakes swirled on a gusting wind, catching the light of the swerving headlamps as a clapped out Vauxhall veered across the narrow country lane. So narrow, both the bonnet and the bumper almost wedged between the grass verges that marked the boundaries between road and endless farmland. The driver cursed as the engine cut out, thumping the steering wheel with one clenched fist and cursing loudly. He turned the key in the ignition, causing the engine to splutter and choke, before falling silent and dead again. The driver paused, hand still gripping the key, not daring to breathe while he succumbed to awful truth. That his car had finally died and he'd have to get out and run for it.

He had wasted time already. Driven too far south and crossed the border into County Monaghan; not realising until the headlights flashed off a welcome sign written in Gaelic. The handbrake turn he'd pulled off in response would have made a racing driver sick with envy, before he came haring North again, back into the blizzards and head-on winds. In doing so, he realised he had probably driven the final nail into the coffin of his civilian motor, already a mobile rust bucket long before it was passed down to him. It was blocking the road, but there was little he could do about it with the nearest telephone box a good two miles back towards the border. But luckily, the faint lights of Crossmaglen twinkled in the near distance and if he ran, he knew he could make it in time.

Once out of the car, the frigid, frozen air burned at his lungs and slapped him in the face like a final insult. Impeding him further was poor visibility. Snow continued to swirl violently, making his eyes water and his vision blur. After years of city living, he'd forgotten how dark the countryside could be. But those years of extra drills and strenuous cross-country runs at Sandhurst paid off as he found himself to be still fast of foot. Even in the ever deepening snow, he kept on running and running, with his arms wrapped round his middle, keeping his flapping jacket hugged tight around him. He followed the lights; blind to the dark, rolling countryside that now lay carpeted in a thick layer of virgin snow.

Even the town was deserted, except for the miserable foot patrol army officers skulking in the shadows and hunching round dark corners. He could see them only from the tail of his eye, didn't notice them until they moved or their radios crackled into life. But the town itself was tiny. Barely a street, with a few side streets leading off the main thoroughfare to god knows where. It was small wonder he missed it the first time round. The pub he was supposed to be in was on a corner of an intersection off the main high street. Its low perimeter wall pock marked with bullet holes and discoloured with ancient republican graffiti. An Irish tricolour offered a rare glimpse of colour as it hung limply from a lamp post outside the main door of the bar. Round the side, he knew, there was a side entrance leading to the side street where the draymen made their deliveries every morning.

Breathless and sweating, he paused, doubling over with hands on knees as he fought to regain his breath. MI5 had approached him, not so long ago. If he had accepted their offer, then he knew he wouldn't be in this fix now. But 'what ifs' were getting him nowhere, and not twenty feet away he knew a Military Intelligence Officer's life was in jeopardy. With the car dead, he didn't even know what he would do in the event of an emergency extraction. The nearest foot soldier was at the other end of town, so they'd have to be bloody fast if they wanted to make it in time. The Police wouldn't come to Crossmaglen, either. Their mere presence would cause a riot among the locals. That was the reason the troops had been called in in the first place, because the RUC had lost control of the Republican districts. 'It would only be for a week or two,' they had said, at the time. That was seven years ago now, and the war ground mercilessly onwards, never ceasing, never letting up.

But whatever was happening at that moment, it wasn't over yet. So the young man lowered himself between the pub and the outer perimeter wall and hunkered down beneath one of the shuttered front windows. The feel of the handgun wedged into a holster under his jacket offered some reassurance as he listened to faint voices emanating from within the barroom. He couldn't pick up what they were saying. To try and get a better idea of what was going on inside, he levered himself up from the ground, trying to get a peek through the shutters over the windows. Even though he could see nothing, he remained in that position until a familiar voice sent him into near cardiac arrest.

"You made it then, Harry?"

The younger man cursed as he bolted round. Kendall had approached him from the side door, grinning like the lunatic he'd proved himself to be several times over. His thick moustache had collected a considerable smattering of snowflakes and his grey eyes twinkled in the light of the lamp post nearby.

"I heard you were fucking compromised!" Harry hissed back. "I drove that bastard rust bucket all the way from Belfast-"

The rest of his sentence was cut off by the sound of Kendall's laughter. Harry's face contorted into something torn between anger and amusement, unable to decide which emotion best suited the scenario he found himself in. Kendall closed the space between them and knelt down in the snow so they were level. When he spoke, he did so in barely a whisper.

"Sean Mallon is in there with his cronies," he explained, deadly serious now. "He knows a tout put him behind bars and he suspected me, that's true enough. But I set him right, don't worry. Now stay out of sight, for fuck's sake. You're in over your head, Pearce. I'll be out again in no more than an hour. I'll get you back to the rust bucket in one piece."

With that, he turned and walked away. His six foot four inch gangly frame loping back into the darkness, back into the lion's den of the IRA drinking club inside. Harry had to remind himself Kendall was a professional; that he'd been undercover with the Provisionals for almost a year. But it didn't stop his heartbeat racing, or the feelings of sickness swelling in the pit of his stomach as he strained his ears to try and pick up what was being said. It was nothing more than an indecipherable buzz punctuated, ten agonising minutes later, by a ringing gun shot that pierced the night time silence around him.

For several long seconds, Harry's heartbeat ceased altogether. When it started again, it did so at thrice the normal speed, prompted it seemed by the shrill scream of a woman from inside. The occupants inside ran from the pub like rats from a burning building, forcing Harry to take cover lower behind the perimeter wall. Several times, he tried to peer over it to make a mental note of those who were inside, to see if Paul Kendall was among them. A thrill of terror –sickening, but undeniably exciting –gripped him as he spotted the aforementioned Sean Mallon exit, discreetly holstering a handgun as he vanished into the night with a female companion. There was no sign of Kendall anywhere. People accustomed to gun fire soon settled and those who ran from the pub initially soon settled to a quick walk down the high street. They clumped together, all chattering loudly in a haze of noise Harry could not decipher. Many, he noted, conversed in Irish and thus eliminated the risk of being overheard by lurking soldiers.

Harry waited. Freezing cold and stiff as a board in the snow, he continued to wait until long after silence fell. It was only when forced to move by the threat of frostbite that he got up and moved to the front doors of the bar. He looked inside, through the glass fronted doors and saw only emptiness inside. Cautiously, he raised one numb hand and peered round a small aperture in the door. Still nothing. Emboldened, he let himself into the deserted bar room. If anyone said anything, he would fake a southern accent and pretend his car broke down in the snow storms outside. Close to the truth, but not quite fully there.

As it happened, there wasn't even a barman around. Bar stools had been overturned. A black and white television played an RTE news broadcast that Harry scarcely paid attention to. Ashtrays still emitted thin wisps of smoke where the cigarettes had not been properly docked and the warm yellow lights fixed to the warmly gave the room an oddly welcoming feel. At the far end of the bar room, a store cupboard door was open. From just inside, a low and frantic voice recited hail Marys, dimly heard over the news broadcaster.

"Ulster Volunteer Force gunman, twenty-six year old Kyle McCracken, walked free from Long Kesh prison today. He spoke to the waiting press only to say he had no regrets over his shooting spree inside a Catholic owned business in West Belfast, in which three people were left dead…"

What was one more gunman on the streets of Belfast? Harry never got to ponder that dilemma as he rounded the bar and a large pool of blood came into view. Empty bullet casings lay scattered around its edge and there was a long smeared streak where someone had slipped in it. Further drops of blood led to the side door used mostly by the draymen. Someone took a bullet that night. Further smatterings of blood had splashed against the back wall, partially obscuring a badly reproduced leaflet advertising a march against Internment that had been tacked to a notice board. Harry ignored it and slipped out of the side door and back out into the freezing night. Immediately, his feet sank into the snow, cushioning his footfalls as to make no sound at all. But the snow was churned up where the clientele had recently fled the pub. A trail of blood had frozen into it, sunk in deep where it sparkled like scattered rubies amid the virgin white.

Once he had eased the door closed behind him, he stepped cautiously out into the deserted street. Whoever moved the body did so in a hurry and even the drag marks in the snow were quickly being obscured by a fresh fall. He barely made it the gate at the bottom of a small path before the trail vanished for good. There was still no sign of Kendall anywhere.

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><p><strong>London, England. November 2012.<strong>

William Towers regarded Harry carefully from across the desk. In the personal confines of his private office inside Whitehall, he seemed somewhat deflated. Quieter, almost smaller, as their talk transcended banter and developed into something more serious. It was just the two of them now. The personal advisors, personal secretaries and hangers on had been dismissed back into the depths of the building from whence they sprang like so many spring flowers. He removed his gold rimmed spectacles and pinched the bridge of his nose, a weary gesture from a weary looking man.

"So, Harry, Northern Ireland," he said, looking back at the Spook. "You're one of the surprisingly few left who still remember the dark old days of the early seventies."

Whether that was a question or a statement, Harry couldn't tell. But whatever it was, it was definitely leading somewhere. Towers' own reticence was enough to set his nerves to prickling unpleasantly.

"Mm," replied Harry, thoughtfully. "And I get the impression I haven't been called over here to reminisce about the good old days of armalites and semtex, either?"

Towers heaved a dry, mirthless laugh. "Not quite I'm afraid. You know what's going on there next week, don't you?"

Of course Harry knew, but he paused and pondered for a moment anyway.

"These talks at Hillsborough Castle?" he asked, rhetorically. "All the main parties in Northern Ireland are barely cooperating – again – so London has decided it's time to step in and give the peace process a shot in the arm. Talks aimed at attracting investment, increasing cooperation between the Nationalist communities and the Police Service; negotiations between rival factions to clear the air before they start blowing each other up again."

"And of course, before they get any funny ideas about blowing up London again," Towers added.

Harry raised a wan smile, mildly amused at how he'd managed to miss that gem of self-interest. "Despite the lack of cooperation between the two main parties, the threat level from paramilitaries – both Republican and Loyalist – remain low. Even fifteen years into the peace process, as you yourself know, all known organisations are under constant surveillance. The main Republican group, the Provisional IRA, all seem to have found second careers as 'Community Workers' and their Loyalist counterparts, the Ulster Volunteer Force, are quite content with protection rackets and drug smuggling."

Towers paled, making a choking noise deep in his throat. "Goodness, Harry, that's hardly ideal!"

"What would you rather they were doing?" retorted Harry, defensively. "These groups were never going to go away completely, but at least they're not waging war against each other. Their activities now are strictly a matter for the Police Service of Northern Ireland to deal with. No, Home Secretary, the biggest terrorist threat comes from dissident Republicans. Most of whom are not organised enough to plot so much as a piss up in a brewery."

"That's not an excuse for complacency-"

"Nor is it being used as such," Harry cut the man off. "You know me better than that. But all I can do is assure you that all groups are being monitored closely, very closely. Anyway, the aims of these talks are being viewed by the Loyalists as benefitting mainly the Republicans. What are giving them to keep them sweet?"

Towers did not reply immediately. His steel-grey eyes cast downwards, towards the crystal glass containing water from a cooler. The brevity of their meeting and the subject at hand dictated that the usual excellent malt whiskey remain safely in the cabinet. The Home Secretary took a long sip, thinking things over carefully.

"We've agreed to resume searching for the Disappeared," he said, making Harry wince.

"The Republicans will love that!" he retorted. "They'll think we're using the past to hold them to ransom. The Provisionals have already decommissioned all their weapons and the unconditional ceasefire has been in place since 1997. What more can they do, bearing in mind the dissidents are completely beyond their control?"

Towers understood. Harry could see that. But he could also see the man was in an impossible position. The immovable object of Ulster Loyalism had met the unstoppable force of Irish Republicanism once more, with the Governments of the United Kingdom and the Irish Republic caught somewhere in the middle of them, attempting to slowly ease them together without causing a catastrophic detonation.

"Well, here's a bit more progress for you on that front," said Towers, brightening up a little. "Kyle McCracken has agreed to meet the Irish Taoiseach actually in Dublin itself."

Harry was genuinely surprised. "Well, well," he replied. "He's crossing into enemy lines, isn't he? What does the rest of his party think of that? I supposed he wouldn't even think about it without their backing."

"I don't bloody care what the rest of his party think of it," Towers snorted. "If there's a chance that even hard line Loyalists like McCracken are now willing to work with Dublin it means less stress for us."

Small wonder Towers had looked so jolly as he revealed this meeting. McCracken was Northern Ireland's First Minister, a staunch Crown Loyalist and Orangeman who'd got this far in his career without even acknowledging the authenticity of the Republic of Ireland's legitimacy. However, Towers' expression had taken on an air of imploration once more.

"Harry," he said, plaintively. "I need you and your team out in Belfast, watching over everything that happens during these talks. I cannot impress upon you enough-"

"Alright, alright!" Harry interjected, holding up his free hand almost as an act of surrender. "I cannot abide seeing powerful men beg."

"Oh, bullshit Harry, you love it," Towers rounded on him, good naturedly.

Harry had to admit it, too. But he had grown genuinely fond of Towers, the first Home Secretary in years to actually go out of his way to help not just him, but Section D and MI5 as a whole. But soon, Towers turned serious again. Peculiarly pensive as he regarded the Section Head once again.

"You knew one of the Disappeared, didn't you?" he asked.

Harry felt the weight of history shifting inside him once more. An uncomfortable squirming like a snake in his gut, fighting its way out through his chest. The Disappeared: a substantial number of people, mainly Catholics accused of collaboration and British Soldiers, who had been captured, tortured and murdered by the IRA. Their bodies lay in secret graves, forgotten and mourned only by their relentless next of kin.

"Paul Kendall," Harry answered. "A military intelligence officer and a good one at that. As it happens, I saw him the same night he disappeared."

Harry remembered it all: the trail of blood in the snow, vanishing into the darkness; an eerie silence, deserted barrooms and gunshots shattering the night. A residual sense of dread closed over him whenever those days thrust their way back into his conscious mind; a paranoid feeling that something terrible was happening just beyond the periphery of his vision. Shadows within shadows…

Meanwhile, Towers look as though he wanted to say more. "We'll be searching for them again, Harry," he assured him. "All of them."

With that, their meeting came to an end and Harry got up to leave. Ruth was waiting in a nearby café and he was keen to be back with her. However, before crossing the street outside, Harry paused on the bustling pavement trying to catch his breath. In the event, she saw him before he saw her. She barged between two burly builders as she dashed across the street to catch him up, clutching her handbag like a shield, a smile spread wide across her face, pale blue eyes shining in the early autumnal sun.

"Hey!" she greeted him breezily, planting a kiss on his cheek. "How'd it go?"

"Pretty badly, to be completely honest," he replied, kissing her back.

It was such a routine thing for them now, so many months after their marriage; a reminder of how far they'd come. How far he had come. But in light of his discussion with William Towers, also a reminder of how far he had to fall back down again. Down into a place where the truth lay hidden and buried in an unmarked grave.

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><p>Ros cleared her throat. "You and I have had a rough year, to say the least."<p>

She and Lucas were sat at her dinner table, finishing up the last of the takeaway meal Ros had lovingly plated up for them both. Work had run on late and there hadn't been time for anything else if they were to get to bed before four am. But now Lucas watched her from over the rim of the wine glass he was drinking from, worry in his eyes at the sudden rearing up of their recent unhappy past. It was almost a year to the day that Vaughan Edwards had rocked up on his doorstep. A date he had mentally marked out in his head, but had absolutely no intention of speaking aloud, unless forced. It was only Ros' look of satisfied contentment that set his jittery nerves at ease, reassuring him that she was not angry.

"Fair enough," he replied, at length. Blunt and to the point.

Ros smiled, her expression soft. "Well then," she said, almost purring. "How does a week-long stay in a stately home surrounded by lush countryside, all expenses paid, including the fine dining restaurant, luxury spa and bedrooms, sound? That should help put things back together again, no?"

Already sensing something amiss, Lucas' eyes narrowed in suspicion. Grinning anyway, despite the fact she was clearly leading him down the garden path. "Fantastic. What's the catch?"

Ros sighed. "Okay, there is just a small catch," she replied, pinching thumb and forefinger together. "A small catch: it's in Northern Ireland; there's going to be hundreds of other people there – including the whole of Section D and we'll actually be spying on a bunch of reformed terrorists masquerading as respectable politicians who still think it's 1976."

"So yeah, just a small catch then!" Lucas retorted, groaning. "You've broken my heart, Ros. Again."

"The bit about the stately home is true," she pointed out, optimistically. "Hillsborough Castle, in County Down. Very nice, actually."

Lucas shrugged. "That's something then. When do we leave?"

"Monday, according to Harry," she replied. "So we'll have to speed up the Britain First op."

Now, Lucas was genuinely aghast. "Shit, Ros, we'll have to have it wrapped up by tomorrow at the latest. Nathan's already pulling an all-nighter with the cell he's infiltrated and he's still unsteady on his feet in a new job."

Ros sighed heavily, gently rubbing at her temples. "I know, Lucas. But Nathan's not new to espionage as a whole and I think he's doing really well. Especially given his circumstances. I'll make sure he gets extra support from Beth."

Lucas didn't say anything immediately. He drained his wine glass before carefully placing it back on the table, where he proceeded to contemplate it deeply. It had been two months since the 'other' Lucas North had been despatched to meet his maker from the top of the Enver Tower, and still he hadn't been released back into the field. His opportunistic side was beginning to crackle gently back into existence.

"I could do it," he suggested, keeping his voice low. Slowly, he lifted his gaze up to meet Ros'. To his relief, she didn't look altogether unhappy as she ran a hand through her bobbed, blond hair.

After a moment's quiet consideration, she returned his gaze. "Go on then," she agreed. "I think you're just about ready. But, Beth's going in with you. You can be far-right fascist Mosque invaders together."

"A match made in heaven," he returned, deadpan. "Besides that, how do you think the new boy's coping? Any good in the field?"

"So far, so good," she answered. Then, her face lit up in a rare, full smile. "You should see Beth Bailey flirting outrageously with him!"

"I noticed a certain attraction. Since when did you care about that stuff?"

"Oh, I don't. But this is priceless, you have to admit that."

The gleeful glimmer in her eye set Lucas' suspicions in swift motion. "Er…" he said, dully.

For a long moment, Ros fixed him with a searching look.

"You're always so down on Beth," he chided. "I wish you'd give her a break. So what if she fancies the new guy?"

She looked as if she was going to say something, but then changed her mind.

"Well, the only reason I know is because I've seen his personnel file-"

"What?" he demanded, suddenly interested. "You can't come this far with me then leave me dangling. What's the newbie's big secret?"

Ros smirked and winked at him, causing an earring to sway and catch the light of a candle. "Classified. But you'll find out, and when you do just make sure you clock the look on Beth's face."

Deciding to retreat from this conversation, Lucas grinned and topped up their glasses. It was still early in their reconciliation, they were still treading soft-footed and silent around each other. But slowly, step by cautious step, they were finding their own way back to each other. Essentially, they had survived, battered but not broken. This time last year … once more Lucas cuts those thoughts off.

"I better book a taxi," he said. "It's almost midnight and I don't want to wait forever."

Across the table, Ros toyed with her left earring. Long, tapered fingers caressing the threaded stones that hung there, gently tugging. Looking at him curiously, her deep green eyes narrowed. "Are you going somewhere?" she asked, voice barely a whisper.

Unsure as to whether he had misheard, Lucas put down his phone and glanced at her. "I just… I thought…" He could lie at the drop of a hat, but the truth always came stammering out in broken, disjointed declarations of ineptitude. "You know…"

Ros remained poised and unmoved, her posture upright and stoic; one hand still toying with the earring. "Stay," she said, disregarding his stammerings. Her gaze remained locked into his. "Just for tonight; let's stay together."

He still had his mobile in his hands. Lucas opened his palm to look at it for a second before switching it off, watching as the screen went dark. He wouldn't be needing it again until morning. Once that was out of the way, he looked back up at Ros and raised a smile; a flicker of nervous excitement curling in his belly. He didn't say anything; he had no need to.

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><p>The taxi stopped at the bottom of the street, disgorging a twenty-something man onto the pavement in stiff, awkward movements. He wasn't especially tall, only five eight, but slim to the point of skinniness. His dark-fair hair curled and his bright blue eyes glittered as he leaned into the driver's window to pay his fare and tip. He waited until the driver had gone before walking casually to his door, further up the deserted street. Shoulders hunched, head down; he stifled a yawn as he turned up his garden path, to the front door of his anonymous house.<p>

Chairman Meow, the sleek black cat, leapt down from the garden wall with a soft mewling cry for attention. While the young man let himself in, the cat rubbed himself against his lower legs, eliciting a soft curse from his owner. But he stopped, when the front door gave way onto a silent, darkened hallway, and scratched the cat's ears. Mewling cries turned to a content thrumming purr within moments.

Once inside, his finger hovered over the light switch, before falling away again. As ever, the landing light upstairs had been left on and the glow of the bulbs permeated the darkness downstairs just enough for him to see by. _Just go to bed_, he inwardly advised. _Just go to bed_. But his time undercover with the far right fanatics was still in his head; he was still that person he was when he was with them: hateful, ignorant, dangerous. It should become like shedding skins and maybe, one day, it would.

He paused by the telephone, sitting silently on its hook on the wall. It was one am, he couldn't call anyone at this hour. But if he did, maybe she would answer? She always kept funny hours. As though incapable of resistance, he lifted the receiver and dialled the number anyway. Chairman Meow settled himself at the bottom of the stairs and watched him accusingly, green eyes flashing a brilliant white as he turned his head towards his owner. Meanwhile, the phone rang shrill in his ear.

"Nathan? … Nathan, is that you?"

He whirled round, looking up the stairs to where the other man peered coyly round the corner, down at him. His voice was heavy and low, drugged with sleep. He was meant to be home hours ago and had no explanation. Not now, with his brain so fried.

"It's me, Olly," he replied against the still ringing phone. "Go back to bed; I'll be up in a moment."

"Who're you calling at this hour?"

"Hello, who is this?"

The ringing had ceased abruptly, followed immediately afterwards by the sound of a disgruntled man. Nathan's heart sank, felt his hands tremble as he willed himself to say something, anything. But his nerve broke, the receiver fell from his hands as he hurried to hang up. Once the phone was back in place he paused, leaning his forehead against the wall as he regulated his breathing once more, getting himself back in command of his own wits. He closed his eyes and sighed deeply.

"Nathan?"

Nathan turned from the wall to look back up at Oliver, dressed only in a t-shirt and football shorts. His large, dark eyes still heavy with sleep, his hair a mess of pitch dark curls.

"It's nothing," he lied. "It's no one."

Lying. Better get used to lying.

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><p><strong>Thank you for reading and, if you have a minute, reviews would be welcome. Thank you<strong>.

Extra Note on Irish Language:

Taoiseach = Irish Prime Minister (pronounced tee-shock)


	2. The Wall

**Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. Thank you.**

**Explanatory note:** Stormont is Northern Ireland's parliament building. Established in 1922; dissolved after five decades in 1972 and re-established in 2007.

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><p><span><strong>Chapter Two: The Wall<strong>

"We were on a hamster wheel to hell, and completely out of control."

(David Ervine, Progressive Unionist leader and ex-UVF paramilitary)

Car engines echoed down the empty side street; headlamps flooding the narrow lane with a sudden burst of light that made Lucas wince. With one hand shielding his eyes he ducked through a painted wooden doorway in the wall, finding himself in someone's backyard; clearing the way for the two blacked out transit vans that now crawled cautiously towards him. Back in darkness, he dropped his hand and pulled up the hood of the black jacket he wore over black overalls. Two feet to his left, Nathan Fraser tucked a handgun discreetly into the lining of his coat before pressing his back flat against the wall. The two of them gave each other a nod, a silent affirmation that all was as it should be. To his right, footsteps sounded softly on the wet paving stones that lined the yard. He turned to find Beth Bailey at his shoulder, her blue eyes transparent in the weak moonlight. Her blond hair had been scraped back into a ponytail and hidden under a black cap, causing her to blend in with the fast falling night.

"This is them," she said, needlessly. "Are you ready?"

He could hear the undertone of worry in her voice, but chose to ignore it. The night was too perfect for that.

"Would it make a difference if I wasn't?"

But he was ready. The corner of his mouth twisted upwards into a half-smile; his eye trained on the open doorway of the yard that was soon obscured by the first of the transit vans coming to a halt right in front of it. Slowly, Lucas zipped up his jacket and drew a deep breath to steady his quickening heartbeat. Making as if to scratch his right ear, he activated the tiny earpiece and soaked up the familiar, strangely comforting, hum as the device went live and found its frequency before fading into silence. He smiled fully as he whispered: "Alpha One."

"I hear you, Alpha One," Ros' voice sounded in his ear. "Start leading them into the mosque now … and good luck, Alpha One."

He thought that he would be nervous after so long an absence. In the last year he had been out in the field maybe twice; three times counting a certain confrontation. But otherwise, he had been rendered out of action since his past had been dragged from the shadows. Now, he was back. The engines of the transit vans cut out, the headlamps shutting off simultaneously before the driver realised and flicked them back on again a moment later. The van doors slid open; followed swiftly by the sound of several voices and footsteps landing heavily on the tarmac.

A thrill of nervous excitement coursed through him, making the hairs at the back of his neck prickle. Now he was back; now he was part of the team again. He glanced to both sides of him, gesturing for Nathan and Beth to form up. As one, the three of them stepped through the narrow doorway, out into the side street still damp from recent rains and full of far right fanatics just waiting to be lured into a trap of MI5's making.

* * *

><p>It began as a civil rights movement. They weren't Republicans; they weren't IRA. They were just Catholic people living in Northern Ireland who wanted a fair shot at the job market; decent housing, a vote and an inside toilet. It wasn't much to ask, given that their Protestant neighbours had all those things and more. Their demonstrations were peaceful; marches through town and one that wound through picturesque country roads. Massive and passive, they assembled across a tiny province to demand what everyone else in Britain already had. No one said anything about a united Ireland. No one said anything about the IRA, who were considered dead and buried in the late Sixties. Nothing, that was, until fire brand Protestants and a reactionary Protestant Stormont Government branded the Civil Rights Association as IRA controlled and incited Crown Loyalists to burn row after row of Catholic homes. As the flames engulfed Bombay Street, the thick palls of choking smoke and the cries of children fleeing in terror stirred the slumbering Irish Republican Army. An eighteen year old Catholic man was shot dead as he walked home from the Protestant owned bar he worked in – the first murder of an innocent civilian. When the flames of Bombay Street were finally doused, graffiti soon appeared on the charred shells of family homes: IRA = I Ran Away. The criticism stung; the sleeping beast of the IRA finally woke up; torn between peaceful protest and armed resistance two factions formed and the Provisional IRA was born. The genie had exploded the bottle in what would prove to be the first of countless devastating detonations.<p>

Now, where Bombay Street once stood is a fifty foot high, razor wire topped peace wall. Fifteen years into a peace process, the wall still stands. Bigger, stronger, more heavily fortified and covered in a patchwork of graffiti pleading for peace; put there by people from all over the world. The Dalai Lama and American Presidents had even left messages there, but they all fell on deaf ears.

Harry felt like he had to step out of his own skin to look at it objectively. To forget that he is a "Brit" and set aside that he is an ex-soldier and MI5. To go right back to the start of the current crop of violence and he cannot help but conclude that it all could have been avoided with clear, rational thinking and cool headed negotiation. Usually, when he spent too long trying to make sense of Northern Ireland, he wanted to go there and bang his head repeatedly against that bastard peace wall. Or, better still, go there and bang the heads of all the politicians and all the paramilitaries off that bastard peace wall. There, problem solved! When his thoughts grew slightly murderous, he usually knew it was time to stop thinking about Northern Ireland.

Luckily for him, Ruth was at his study door wearing nothing but a silk robe tied at the waist and not much else. Even better, she was leaning against his study door and looking at him with one elbow braced against the filing cabinet and her hair tied in a loose ponytail. A few stray locks hung loose about her face, framing her high cheekbones; wide, blue eyes trained on him and a smile just playing at her lips.

"That was Ros on the phone," she said, killing Harry's newly regenerated happiness before it could take flight.

"Oh," was all he could enthuse in response and sought sanctuary by letting his gaze drift down the front of the loose robe.

"Yeah, the op's going really well and Lucas is on top form," she explained. "They lured Britain First into the Mosque by scaling the walls with grappling hooks. But, Beth and Nathan had already led the worshipers to safety and CO19 were waiting inside. Good news, huh?"

"Oh, yes. That's magnificent," he replied, addressing the exposed portion of her left breast. His favourite birthmark was just visible beneath the fold of the fabric.

"One more thing," she said, closing the space between them and sitting on his knee. "Someone phoned in a message for you at Thames House. Ros didn't say what it was."

Harry didn't care, either. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed his favourite birthmark. Ruth steadied herself by hugging his neck, one hand across the back of his shoulders.

"The man's name was Sean Mallon, though. Ring any bells?"

For a moment, Harry's heart stopped beating altogether. The blood in his veins seemed to freeze as he looked directly up at her.

"Sean Mallon," he repeated. "Are you sure?"

Ruth nodded, not noticing the sudden and adverse change in him. "Positive."

"But he wouldn't say what he wanted?"

"Just that he needed to speak with you," she replied, with a shake of her head. "According to Ros, anyway. It was she who took the message."

That night came back to him once more. The single gunshot in the isolated town, the frozen blood in a trail that led nowhere. Paul Kendall missing, never to be seen again. Sean Mallon walking away, tucking the handgun discreetly into the waistband of his jeans. Even the woman in the blue coat who walked beside him. It all came back to Harry in a rush; moments relived after years of being buried deep in his memory. Like shrapnel, it worked its way to the surface of his skin, breaking through the final barrier with pain and with blood.

"He must have heard about the talks," Harry said, trying to sound dismissive. "That's all it'll be. On Monday, before we leave for Heathrow, I want you to get his file and bring it with us. The same for Kyle McCracken and there's another for Paul Kendall, I want that too."

Ruth frowned, tightening her hold on him. "Okay," she said, softly. "Remind me on the day and it'll be done."

He could have cursed Towers for not giving them more time to prepare. Just about every politician in that place had a cemetery load of skeletons stuffed in their closets, with links to some very shady groups. But for now, he had to focus on the key players.

"Now all we need to worry about is Nathan's phone records," said Ruth. "You saw the printouts of the call logs, didn't you?"

Harry sighed and shut his eyes, as if that would block out the knowledge of what their newest recruit was doing. "Yes, I did," he conceded. "But I want to hear his explanation before taking any further action."

Section D's newest recruit had made a series of calls from his desk phone to an address in South Wales. No more than a minute in length, all ending with him hanging up moments after the calls are answered. On the surface it looked undeniably bizarre. But then, so did a lot of what MI5 did.

"Tom Quinn recommended Nathan Fraser to us," Harry reminded her. "Said he'd be an asset to the service and so far, he has been. These are just unexplained phone calls. If there is more to it, then at least we've caught him early and not after a lifetime's seemingly impeccable service."

It was a small mercy, but a mercy nonetheless. Harry and Ruth lapsed into a companionable silence; still entwined in Harry's office chair with their heads and noses touching, she simply held on to him. Sensing the change for the darker in his mood. They stayed that way until the sound of car horn from outside startled them both. Together, they whipped round towards the window that faced the road outside; Ruth almost falling to the floor. But Harry managed to grab her. After a moment's panic, they both laughed as they got back into position.

"Not that we're paranoid, or anything!" Ruth joked, but her laughter was forced.

To be certain, Harry reached around Ruth and flicked on the OC monitor behind her. She shifted so they could both see it, but all the CCTV cameras showed was their desolate garden in night-vision. Neither of them had attempted to do much with it: Ruth didn't know how and Harry thought life was too short. Ruth stretched one arm out and pressed the arrow key, changing cameras. The side path of the house was also desolate. Fidget II skulked under a bush, near an abandoned hosepipe and upturned watering can. A pair of wellington's sat by the kitchen door and there was little else to see.

"Try the front," said Harry.

Ruth pressed the arrow key again, showing their front lawn that they paid someone else to mow. But just as the image changed, a fleeting movement caught both their eyes. Quickly, Ruth pressed the back key, changing to the side path once more, bringing the intruder into view. Tall, stocky, dressed all in black with a balaclava covering his face, it caused Ruth's heart to jump into her throat. The eyes the balaclava were stretched and distorted, like some Halloween mask. For one moment, he looked directly into the camera.

"Get in the bedroom and stay there," Harry instructed.

"I'm coming with you!" she hissed back, now on her feet.

Opening the top drawer of his desk, Harry collected his handgun and made sure it was loaded. "You're almost naked, Ruth," he pointed out. "Just do as I say and call the police!"

Ruth slipped soundlessly from the tiny study while Harry continued to watch the man circle their home. On screen, he almost tripped over the watering can and he just about heard the faint clatter of aluminium on concrete; then Scarlett the dog started yapping like a frenzied beast from her kennel. He eased off the safety catch as he slowly descended the stairs and entered the kitchen without turning the lights on. All the while, Harry held his breath; the dog carried on barking, with their neighbour's dog joining in to make a cacophonous chorus that would wake the dead. The trip lights outside had already have been activated and any rational burglar would have been scared off then. But Harry could never afford to be complacent about that. But soon he heard the unmistakable sound of footfalls sprinting down the driveway outside, receding into the night before Harry could even slide back the bolts from his kitchen door.

* * *

><p>High on adrenaline, the three of them jumped from the top of the Mosque's perimeter wall. Behind them, the noise of the arrests still rang out; voices raised in anger and resounding down the echoing streets; police sirens wailing and the rhythmic click of steel handcuffs falling into place as struggling suspects were finally subdued. Beth, Lucas and Nathan landed in a jumble on the pavement outside, laughter and groans of sudden pain lost in the melee of the night.<p>

"Hey, you're hurt," said Beth as she held her hand out to Nathan. "There's blood all over your top."

They had lost the black overalls and were now in their civilian clothing. Bright red spots of blood showed on Nathan's white t-shirt, still damp and still rather eye-catching. He zipped up his hoodie to cover it.

"One of the bastards hit me, so I had to hit him back," he replied, breathlessly.

"Nice work back there," said Lucas, still catching his own breath. "What do you say we carry this discussion on down The George?"

Beth pulled back her sleeve and tilted her wrist towards the nearest lamppost. "Still only ten. Plenty of time for a drink or ten."

"Exactly," Lucas concurred.

However, Nathan was hesitant. "Sorry guys-"

"Ah, come on!" Lucas and Bath chorused. "It's only the one!"

They were both looking at him, scandalised. "Yeah, and the other nine!" he laughed. "Look, I promised I'd be back by eight."

"Do you still live with your parents then?" asked Beth, incredulously.

"Of course not!" he retorted.

"Well then," Lucas chimed in. "You're coming down the pub. Even Ros is meeting us there."

Before Nathan could answer, another voice took them all by surprise.

"Actually, she's meeting you here."

They all squinted through the darkness, to where the woman herself was leaning out of the driver's window of a parked car. She flicked on the internal light to reveal herself, grinning and glaring at the three of them in a manner that suggested no compromises. "Get in," she drawled, lazily. "All of you."

Outnumbered and outgunned, Nathan felt his arm being metaphorically twisted a little further up his back. What would the harm in one be, anyway?

Once the car was left at Thames House, they set off on foot towards the pub, chatting excitedly about the op before electing Ros to procure the first round. A special treat for directing them so superbly. Before they went inside, however, Ros managed to get Lucas on his own in the porch that led to the main bar. She could see that it was packed inside, like a typical Saturday night. But the sound of the music was muffled and they were sheltered from the drizzling rain that had just begun to fall outside.

"Are you okay?" she asked, keeping her voice low.

They were huddled in a far corner so as not to obstruct the two doors that led into the public bar and lounge bar, respectively. Lucas looked back at her, meeting her gaze easily.

"It was fine," he promised her. "I am fine. I've never felt better."

She suppressed a sigh of relief and tried to think of something to say that wasn't utterly patronising or condescending. This last year had been hell for them both, but more so for him. He had been treated like a criminal, distrusted and disgraced; all the while fighting constantly to prove his worth. Tonight, he had achieved that. Ros knew it and soon the whole of Section D would too, soon.

"That really is just as well," she eventually replied. "Because you're back on the team, for good."

For a moment, it was thought he hadn't heard her. But then his face lit up in a bright and easy smile, one that made his eyes shine as he embraced her. They snatched a last minute kiss before ducking inside to celebrate their success against the far right with the others.

* * *

><p>Ruth, now fully dressed, padded softly across the front lawn. Periodically, she was bathed in the blue flashing glow of the police cars outside their house. Still shaken and trembling, she came to a rest beside Harry, who was still talking to the policemen who'd arrived at their home. Their uninvited guest had triggered an alarm at Thames House, which in turn alerted the local Police. So two lots of policemen turned up after Ruth also called them. One of the Policemen was already returning to his car and driving away by the time Ruth got there.<p>

"Good evening, Madam," the young officer greeted her with a nod.

"Hello there," she replied, linking her arm through Harry's.

Harry turned to her and tried to smile reassuringly. "There's nothing here," he said. "It was probably just a burglar who got scared off by the dogs."

"You've searched everywhere, haven't you?" she asked, turning to the Officer.

"We have," he replied. "Your neighbour sounded her car horn to try and scare him off. That would have been enough to set his nerves on edge."

Ruth remembered them both being startled by the car horn, and breathed a sigh of relief. "We must remember to thank them," she said, looking back to Harry.

"I've already checked under the car, there's nothing there," Harry said to the officer. "I'll check again before we use it, just to be sure. But it's all clear here, as far as I'm concerned."

If this was just a common attempted burglary why would he check under the car? Ruth's brow knotted into a frown as she turned back towards the black BMW she and Harry now shared. But it was late; past midnight by the time the policemen left. All she wanted to do was have her much delayed bath and try to get some sleep.

* * *

><p>The noise inside the George had reached inhuman levels, but the Spooks barely noticed. They shared several bottles of wine between them, followed by a few rounds of beers and augmented their alcohol unit consumption with tequila slammers at the bar. It was only the vibrations inside her jacket pocket that alerted Ros to her mobile ringing. Hazily, she climbed to her feet and nearly stumbled over several by-standers as she made to answer it. Instinctively, Lucas followed her outside, where she took the call in the driveway.<p>

"Hello!" she bellowed into the phone as though she were still shouting over the music. Lucas had to suppress a snort of laughter.

"Wha-?"

As the conversation continued, her face contorted as she tried to keep her concentration up. "Just switch it off!" she snapped. Then fell silent again as the other person tried to explain something Lucas couldn't even guess at. "Oh, shit!"

"What is it?" he tried to ask, but Ros merely waved him away.

When she did hang up, she looked at him and groaned heavily.

"My bloody burglar alarm's been going off for the last hour," she explained. "I have to go switch the bastard thing off. Bloody policeman can't get in there, can they?"

Lucas, like the rest of them, was already spinning like a child's top. He was discreetly holding on to a low wall to keep himself upright, as it was. "Think I'll come with you, actually," he said. "I think I just hit my peak."

"Is that what they call paralytic these days?" she grinned, putting her arms around his neck and pulling him in close. "Come on then, I'll call the taxi and you get our coats."

By the time Nathan reached home, it was nearing two am. Beth Bailey had provided some much needed support as he hoisted himself out of the back of their shared taxi and managed to half-drag, half-walk him up the garden path. In truth, they were keeping each other upright. When she reached the door, she rang the bell and kept it pressed down for several long moments. She didn't let go until an upstairs light came on and a furious voice bellowed out: "All-fucking-right!"

Nathan, slouched against the wall of the porch let his head roll to the side. "I don't think he's too happy, do you?"

Beth laughed, before turning and stumbling back down the garden path and into the taxi. "See ya!" she called back.

The front door opened, but only by an inch. Through that narrow aperture, Olly looked daggers at him. But Nathan had already set his mind to trying to walk through it anyway. He hit the door, making the chain snap and Olly jump back. A dull pain registered where Nathan's head smacked off the edge of the door.

"Where the hell have you been?" Olly asked, his voice a low South Yorkshire drawl. "I was worried sick about you!"

Speaking of which, Nathan had to launch himself off the doorstep and towards the nearby privet hedge before he threw up everywhere. Olly merely watched and heaved a heavy sigh of indignation. But, once he deemed it safe, he helped Nathan back inside, letting him lean against his shoulder. Once steered into the living room, he was lowered onto his back on the sofa, while Olly went through to the kitchen and returned with a washing up bowl in his hands.

"I suppose those computers you fix decided to hit back tonight before dragging you down the pub?" he asked, rolling his dark eyes. "I don't know what's going on with you, Nathe. But something is. I never see you anymore; you're always so late. Something's changed, and I don't know what it is."

The room was dark, but nicely furnished. Their pet cat was curled up on a dining room chair, where Nathan could see the table was still set for two; only his place remained, untouched wine glass included. The candle in the middle had been lit, burned down low and extinguished in the long hours between his leaving and his return. Slowly, he rolled over to face Olly and proffered slurred apologies. The sadness in the other man's eyes was unmistakable; this new job had been a gift and an opportunity of a lifetime. But now, Nathan could see the cost. Even in this state, he could see what the lies and the subterfuge was doing. He brought one hand up to Olly's face, but succeeded only in drawing attention to his bruised knuckles so pulled away again.

"I still love you, if that means anything," he said, willing his head to stop spinning.

For a brief moment, their eyes met. Blue on black, before falling away to nothing.

"Whatever."

With that, Olly got up and returned to their bed, leaving Nathan there on the sofa. He returned not long after, but only to dump a blanket and pillow on to him. But Nathan no longer even had the energy to arrange his bedding. He let himself fall fast under the pull of unconsciousness. Deep, fast and out like a light. A heavy sleep punctuated by dreams that formed a pallid masquerade in his head. His father was there, furious and raging at him; his mother crying in the kitchen, the sound of her sobbing carried into the living room. His sister, Jasmine, wedging herself between he and his father, forming a human shield as she pleaded with them both to stop and just talk. Just talk it out. The scene shifts and resolves, to Tom Quinn who had a habit of just letting himself into whatever house Nathan was living in at the time. Tom laughs and quotes Philip Larkin to him: "they fuck you up, your mum and dad. They may not mean to, but they do."

He awakens late the next day; long past two in the afternoon. An early autumn sunshine, still retaining the heat of an Indian Summer is splashed around the living room and he's been sick in the night. Nathan winces, his head pounding and his brain feeling like it's been replaced with a concrete breeze block. He turns to where a glass of water has been left on the side table, with a plain white envelope propped against it; it was addressed to him. Nathan frowns as he takes it, opening it up to find a letter of few words inside: "I'm sorry. I just can't do this anymore." Oliver's signature scrawled underneath that solitary sentence.

With a groan and a heave of the stomach, Nathan collapsed back against the sofa.

* * *

><p><strong>Thank you again for reading; if you have a moment, reviews would be welcome.<strong>


	3. Nothing Personal

**Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, and to the Guest reviewers I'm unable to thank in person. Thank you! **

* * *

><p><span><strong>Chapter Three: Nothing Personal<strong>

**Cavehill Road, Belfast. February 1976.**

A lone Saracen rounded the corner and began its slow, cumbersome ascent up the Cavehill Road. Through a mist of sleet rain, Harry watched its progress from the top of the hill, safely inside an Army Land Rover, the letter he had been reading set aside. Already, the street had been cordoned off and harassed looking women bellowed at unruly children – more annoyed than afraid. Harry watched them all, wondering exactly when a bomb scare became just another part of daily life. An annoyance to be endured, like getting the kids to school on time or pulling in the laundry before the rain starts to fall. If the device went off all those mothers, their children and everything they owned would be blasted to the moon and back, but still they took their time about it all. War: it was all routine now.

One of the women, brawny armed and red of face, approached Harry's side of the Land Rover. She had her hair in curlers beneath a granny-style scarf on her head; she was probably no more than twenty-eight or twenty-nine, but premature childbearing, civil war and life in general was giving her the look of someone much older. A lit cigarette was transferred from hand to mouth as she thumped on the window, even though she could see that Harry had already noticed her. Supressing a sigh, he opened the door by just a fraction but made no move to get out. Not in that weather and not be given a tongue lashing by a disgruntled local.

"Here son," she lisped at him, cig still in mouth. "When are you'se getting this sorted? My weens aren't long for getting to school and he's melting my head about it. You'se are sat on your arses in those jeeps an doing nothing all day, but for harassing innocent people. Why's it always us? Why aren't you'se all down with them wans on Tiger Bay? What're you'se doing 'ere naw?"

Harry let the diatribe flow over him, while watching that cigarette – still precariously perched in the corner of her mouth – defy the laws of gravity and bounce in time to her angry tirade. The smell of the smoke, always quite repellent to him, had him discreetly reclining further in his seat. After taking a moment to cut through the woman's Belfast accent, he deciphered the actual nature of her complaint. Her kids are late for school; her husband is being a garrulous twat and why is he, Harry Pearce, stationed here on the Cavehill Road and would he not like to torment Protestants for a change? He drew a deep, steadying breath before answering.

"The bomb is here, not Tiger's Bay. I could go to Tiger's Bay, it wouldn't take me five minutes. But then you would get blown up. So I suggest you take your family and yourself to safety. The Church on the Antrim road has opened for the evacuees and is serving hot drinks. Get one."

To his eternal dismay, the woman simply folded her arms across her chest and looked him square in the eye.

"Right, soldier boy, get you on out here and say that to my face."

As far as Harry was concerned, he already had said it to her face. But the argument picking, the recalcitrance even in the face of immense danger was something he was used to. Not one soul in these streets could afford to appear friendly to British Soldiers, lest they be denounced as traitors and be spirited away to some desolate spot along the border and left there with a bullet between their ears. It was nothing personal.

"Please, madam, go to safety on the Antrim Road. People are waiting to assist you and we will diffuse the device as soon as we're left to get on with our job."

The woman's gaze flickered away from him and towards the row of terrace houses alongside which he had parked the Land Rover. Which house did she come from? Harry didn't see; she just materialised from the steady stream of civilians who were already well on their way downhill, towards the Antrim Road. The last of whom was now dragging a loudly protesting seven year old boy, who whined that he wanted to "see stuff explode."

"Youse 'uns are all cowards," said the woman, eyes narrowed dangerously. "Our boys'll sort you out."

Finally, she sloped off with her shoulders hunched, walking in the opposite direction from which she came. That, too, snagged at Harry but he simply retrieved his letter from the dashboard and went to take up where he'd left off. Congratulations, Jane Townsend, now working as a Class Room Assistant. Yes, Jane Townsend, she would love to meet him again. Maybe a drink or two and a meal at a nice restaurant. Who knows what might happen, so long as he doesn't get blown up before then. Because now, the Saracen has come to a rest just before Harry's Land Rover. It was time to do his job and provide cover for the bomb disposal team as they went about their nerve-racking work.

He heard the back door of the Land Rover open, followed by the sounds of his colleague's boots hitting the tarmac. The metallic click of automatic guns being readied in case of an ambush, while nervous RUC men closed the cordons. Harry fetched his own gun and finally slid down from the driver's seat to meet his counterpart in bomb disposal. Those boys were usually barking mad after a few years in the job, but Harry couldn't blame them. He closed the Land Rover door and walked forwards to introduce himself, hand extended.

"Second Lieutenant Harry Peace," he began, just as the man's head exploded.

It all happened so fast that none of them even had time to register the gunshot that came from the rooftops directly behind Harry. They didn't even have time to check properly before being forced to take cover and ready their own weapons. Harry launched himself to the ground behind the Saracen, just as another shot rang out from the opposite side. It smashed into the side of the Saracen, where it became lodged in its thick metal walls. They were in such a frenzied flurry they didn't even bother to take aim before returning fire and suddenly, the air was filled with the explosion of round after round of live ammunition. Aware that they were surrounded by IRA snipers up on rooftops on both sides of the Cavehill Road, they were sitting ducks. Nowhere was safe, so it was a matter of shooting their way out and hoping for the best.

This was no bomb scare; this was an ambush. Phone in a bomb scare; evacuate the area to get the non-combatants safely out of the way and it was game on for a raw, dirty gunfight between the IRA and the Brits. It was fast becoming the Republican movement's modus operandi. That woman was drawing him out, Harry was sure of it. A nice clear headshot to get things started. But now was not the time to dwell on his lucky escape. He wasn't yet out of danger.

Meanwhile, he had managed to belly crawl back to the Land Rover, where his men were returning fire in just about every direction possible. The enemy was hidden behind chimney stacks and free to run along the vast terraces' roofs. There was nothing to divide one roof from another. A bullet fired by the IRA men bounced off the bonnet of the Land Rover just as Harry reached it, forcing him to duck down again before he could get the gunman in sight. But the very second the blast receded, Harry was back up and leaning on the bonnet, the gunman fixed in the sight of his weapon. A silhouetted figure whose face was obscured by a woollen mask. Without even thinking, his figure squeezed the trigger and a split second later the figure on the roof keeled over. He pitched forwards, before falling three stories to the ground. Down, down and down, hitting the concrete path with a nauseating crunch of skull against stone. A fleeting moment of death that transformed the gunman from enemy to human being; a very fleeting moment in which the waste of life sickened even Harry Pearce.

* * *

><p><strong>London, 2012.<strong>

All was quiet on the Grid and Nathan breathed a small sigh of relief as he passed through the pods. He exchanged a nod and a gruff greeting with Tariq before falling into his chair and booting up his PC. While he waited, he reached into the breast pocket of his shirt and withdrew Oliver's derisory 'Dear John' letter and glanced over it again, as though some clue would reveal itself miraculously. Yes, things had been bad since the late nights and the secrecy of his job had kicked in; but six months prior to that the subject of civil partnership had been raised on more than one occasion. What had really changed?

Once the PC was booted up, he reached the MI5 interface and input his username and password. Then he was able to access a search engine in the national database. He typed in Oliver Michael Jones and cursed under his breath at the scores of results it brought up. Who knew that name would be so common. He narrowed it down to one with an exact date of birth, and so his search began in earnest.

Ever since his graduation from Manchester University, over six years previously, he had been skirting the periphery of the espionage world, just beyond the shadows. Flitting between private outfits and slowly being edged through the door of full blown spying. It wasn't what he intended, but even after six years he was still amazed by the sheer level of detail about every single person in Britain was contained within these outfit's databases. The only real difference between MI5 and the others was a veneer of respectability afforded by state officiallity and an air of borrowed glamour lent to it by endless clichéd Cold War novels and exaggerated Hollywood movies. Looking beyond all that surface stuff, Nathan really couldn't tell the difference between any of them.

However, what he was able to find out was that Oliver had used his credit card to purchase flight tickets to the United States and that their car – which Olly had driven off in – had been given a parking ticket. It left him dazed; his hands trembled as he checked the flight. It had left at seven pm the previous evening, a Sunday; Heathrow to the JFK, New York City, where it landed not a second late in the early hours of the morning. Nathan's expression contorted in frustration and confusion. One simply cannot get on a plane and fly to New York on a whim. Visas were needed and, if this was what it seemed, Oliver would have been planning his departure for months in advance.

Quickly gathering his wits, he was about to access information on visas issued, before a sharp voice cut through him.

"Nathan, come with me."

He whirled round to find Ruth Evershed standing over him, her coat still draped over her arms. Not far behind her, a drained looking Harry was unlocking his office door. A chilled sense of some unknown misdemeanour closed over him as he got and up followed her into Harry's office. As though this was some unexpected meeting with the headmaster, Nathan surreptitiously straightened the waistcoat he wore under his suit jacket before fidgeting with the knot of his tie. By the time they got in there, Harry was sat behind his desk with a file open in front of him. It was his personnel file, his mug shot paper clipped in one corner. He always looked like a criminal in those things.

Ruth pulled out a seat at the opposite side of the desk and gestured for him to sit down, before joining Harry. For a few tense moments, they all sat in silence. Ruth's large blue eyes darted between the file and Nathan himself, her expression giving nothing away except an air of amplified seriousness. Not one to willingly draw things out, Nathan himself decided to end the undeclared stand-off.

"Do you mind me asking-"

"Yes, I do," Harry cut over him without looking up from the file.

Unequivocally slapped down, Nathan coloured slightly as he diverted his gaze to his lap. It remained there until an A4 print out was slipped across the desk, right under his nose.

"Care to explain?" asked Harry, perfectly calm.

Nathan took the paper and scanned down a list of phone calls. Listed alongside them was the call duration and the number dialled. It was a number he recognised instantly, but he had no idea he had called it that many times. An all too familiar sense of dismay opened up in him; it was like having a record of missed opportunities thrust in his face. All those times he could have done something, but didn't.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. "It won't happen again."

On the opposite side of the desk, Harry looked distinctly unimpressed. "That's not an answer."

For a moment, the two of them looked at one another. Harry was rhythmically drumming his fingers against the desktop … waiting … waiting…

"It-it's just someone I know," Nathan stammered. He could feel his private business being forcibly extracted like a bad tooth that just wouldn't let itself go. "It doesn't affect my work here-"

"Then stop bloody well bringing it here," Harry retorted, the patience suddenly gone. "Whoever you're stalking you can do it in your own time. And if I find out you've been using MI5 resources for this, your arse will be out that door so fast you'll be home before your court summons. Do you hear me?"

Stunned by the angry rebuke, Nathan's protest froze on his lips as he looked dumbly back to his boss. But once more, the truth burrowed deeper into his heart and he found himself lost once more. Even if he told the truth, Harry hardly looked like a man who gave a toss and Nathan was not one to expose those kind of feelings simply to be dismissed and under rug swept.

"I hear you," he managed to reply, at length. "But it's not what it seems."

"Well, that's something," Ruth chipped in, over-brightly. "Now you can get ready for the meeting."

Nathan turned towards her, wondering why she was even there. She's Harry's wife, but still only an Analyst. Could this MI5 power couple not function without each other? Ruth looked half Harry's age, so he must have done, at some time. Either way, there was something about Ruth that unnerved him. Those big, doleful eyes that seemed to see right through people, the gaze raking over everything and everyone. It was like she was insinuating herself into everyone's business without even realising she was doing it. Whatever it was about her, he understood himself to be dismissed and he was thankful for it.

* * *

><p>Later that morning, Ruth found the files she was looking for easily. Sean Mallon – an IRA man; Kyle McCracken – a UVF man. Finally, Paul Kendall – a Military Intelligence Officer. The first two files considerably denser and heavier than the third, seeing as Kendall's activities had been so suddenly and mysteriously been cut off some three decades before. Still, she brought them through to the meeting room, where Section D was already assembled, with Harry in his customary place at the head of the table. They had been chatting amongst themselves as she opened the door, but her appearance silenced them as though a switched had been flicked. All eyes turned to her, expectantly.<p>

"Morning all," she greeted them, letting the files drop to Harry's side. "Sean Mallon; Kyle McCracken and Paul Kendall," she announced. Without taking her seat, she continued with the briefing. "Sean Mallon was known to have been active with the Provisional IRA from 1972 onwards, although he may have joined as early as '71. He was imprisoned for membership of an illegal organisation and possession of explosives in 1973 – on the word of a Special Branch Informer – and not released until December 1975. He hasn't been active in paramilitarism since the 1996 cease fire, however. So his threat level is low."

Harry partially raised an arm off the desk, signifying he had something to say. "When he was released from Long Kesh in '75, he personally made it his mission to track down the person who had betrayed him. Which leads us on to this man, Paul Kendall."

"Excuse me a minute," Ros interjected. "But Sean Mallon was the man contacted Reception on Saturday night, wasn't he?"

Harry confirmed that. "More about that in a minute. But, Paul Kendall was a Military Intelligence Officer last seen in the company of Sean Mallon while he was infiltrating the South Armagh cell of the Provisionals. I know, because I was there too."

This revelation made every agent round the table sit up a little straighter. Even Nathan dragged himself out of his silent sulk to look, in not shocked, unpleasantly surprised. Harry took a deep breath and disguised the look of sadness that now clouded his dark green eyes.

"Naturally, we don't have to worry too much about Kendall as a person," he stated, returning his gaze to the team. He looked at each of them in turn, for the first time a slither of doubt penetrated the normally absolute confidence he had in them. Northern Ireland had always been something different; something more vicious. "As Ros has already mentioned, Mallon has tried to contact me. Is it because he has found out I was there that night? Or some other ancient grudge? I don't know, but I want you all to be on the lookout. In his day, he was a ruthless IRA operative and as the old cliché goes, leopards don't change their spots.

Also worth mentioning, Ruth and I had an uninvited guest to our home on Saturday night; as did Ros and I don't believe in coincidences of this nature. Extra reasons to be vigilant."

A murmur of assent rippled round the table as Harry gestured to Ruth to continue. She responded first by opening the file on Kyle McCracken. As Northern Ireland's vociferous First Minister, they were already well aware of that part of his life. This, however, delved into the past, long before he discovered Armani suits and the Old Testament.

"You all know the man's public face," she began, bringing his mug shot up on the smart screen, as she had with Mallon. "He's the leader of the Progressive Loyalists, but before that he was a gunman for the Loyalist Paramilitary group, the Ulster Volunteer Force. He's believed to have joined them in 1972. In the same year he walked into a Catholic owned bookmakers and opened fire, killing three people and injuring five others before being tackled to the ground and pinned down before the Army arrived on the scene. He then went on to serve a fraction of his sentence and released from Long Kesh in January 1976 to the fury of the Nationalists-"

"Is it any wonder?" Nathan cut in, abrasively. Everyone turned to look at him, startled. "What? A Catholic kid back then could just look twice at a British Soldier and be Interned without trial for the rest of his life. A Protestant so-called Loyalist could shoot dead three Catholics like they were dogs in the street and get nothing more than a slap on the wrist! If we're to stop this endless cycle of violence once and for all, then we need to stop pandering to scum like Kyle McCracken."

His outburst was met with stunned silence, broken only by a tremulous Beth. "He has a point, Harry. Not everything the British did was entirely above board."

Harry paid her no heed, instead turned his weary exasperation on to Nathan. "Thank you for that summary on how to achieve world peace, Mister Fraser. Next time I want something highly complex and convoluted to be radically over-simplified to the point where a village idiot can understand it, I'll come to you."

Ruth watched this exchange, listening carefully while her mind got to work on how to reach some form of resolution. "In fact, Nathan, you can tell First Minister McCracken all that yourself, while you're escorting him to Dublin to meet with the Irish Prime Minister."

She flashed him a beatific smile as his expression froze into scandalised horror. Harry, realising that Ruth was tactically removing an unknown quantity from their ranks for a few days, wholeheartedly endorsed her suggestion. Until he proved himself, he would be kept at arm's length, lest he should do any real damage to the service.

* * *

><p>Ros grinned as she drove herself and Lucas to the airport, late that afternoon. "Poor Nathan!"<p>

Lucas laughed. "He really should've known better though. I mean, if Harry wanted to hear his opinion, he would have asked for it."

Outside their car, it was another fine day in the last gasp of the dying summer. The air was crisp and clean, not too hot and not yet cold – although Ros knew it wouldn't be long. It was almost enough to inject a small shot of enthusiasm and optimism into her world. But still, despite it all, the spectres of the impending mission in Ireland still drew closer, closing in on her and her team. On top of that, Harry's mood had been incendiary. Regardless of what Lucas said, the way their boss had rounded on Nathan was not entirely in character. He'd been questioned before, without feeling the need to gorge himself on the blood of the questioner.

She glanced in the rear view mirror, where Harry and Ruth were following them. Behind them, Tariq and Nathan had travelled with Beth in her car. It was supposed to be Nathan driving them but, as luck would have it, Nathan had apologised profusely and claimed his car had been stolen over the weekend.

Within a few hours, they would all be getting off a plane at the George Best Airport in Belfast. Ros' thoughts drifted over to Jo Portman, who had taken her annual leave – as well as herself – to the tropics for a few weeks. Belfast, sadly, couldn't quite compare.

"Lucky cow," whispered Ros.

Lucas snorted laughter. "You're not thinking of Jo again, are you?"

To which Ros replied: "I bet she gets sunstroke."

"Bet, or hope?" he grinned.

Ros chose to ignore that.

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks again for reading. If you have a minute, a review would be much appreciated.<strong>


	4. Hillsborough

Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. Just a reminder that my OCs are all purely fictional, even if they exist within a framework that is real and belong to groups that were real.

**Northern Ireland is a land of many initials. Here's a few of them:**

**OFMDFM – Office of First Minister and Deputy First Minister**

**PSNI – Police Service of Northern Ireland**

**RUC – Royal Ulster Constabulary (now defunct)**

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><p><span><strong>Chapter Four: Hillsborough<strong>

As the aircraft began its descent into Belfast's George Best Airport, Harry couldn't escape the feeling he was stepping back into a Gladiator's arena. His gaze slid sideways, towards the small window out of which the province could now be seen. From that altitude, it really was the Emerald Isle: vast expanses of green fields stretching out in all directions, punctuated by the large blue blimp of Lough Neagh and ringed by swelling mountains. A restless sea battered the rugged northern coastlines, white peaked waves visible even from up high. Soon, the plane passed over land, banking left to make the dizzyingly sharp turn onto the airstrip. Then, the grey urban sprawl of Belfast slipped into view seemingly out of nowhere, before rushing up to meet them as the plane made its smooth downward journey.

Beside him, sat next to the window, was Ruth. She was leaning to the left, watching as the city came into view. Seemingly captivated and silent, she made no attempt at conversation before the plane's wheels bumped against the tarmac and her view was limited to only the grey-green blur of the runway. The aircraft draws to a halt and Harry feels like he's travelled back in time.

"The last time I saw Belfast was from the window of a chinook helicopter," he told Ruth. "You could actually see the smoke billowing out of the city centre from the burning wreckage of a bombed out building."

But it was as they were leaving – always the best view of Belfast. Ruth turned to look at him and placed one hand on his arm, where it was propped against the armrest. She wore the expression of a barefoot child treading through a nest of nettles.

"You…you never talk about it," she stammered. "Why-"

"There's really nothing to say," he lied.

Luckily, their conversation was cut short as they were ushered quickly off the plane and through the VIP arrival area, to where cars and their luggage was already waiting for them. Compared to his last visit, these were extravagant luxuries courtesy of the Office of First Minister and Deputy First Minister. It brought a wry smile to Harry's face when he recalled that the two men who filled those high offices of state, not so long ago, wanted him and his kind dead. The feeling had been mutual.

"Did you remember to bring those files?" he asked as they climbed into the back of their limo.

"Of course," replied Ruth, rolling her eyes. "You only reminded me every ten minutes."

Before the car pulled out onto the Sydenham bypass bound for Hillsborough Castle, Harry looked back at the airport. What had once been an iron bound, bomb proof fortress manned by British Army officers and RUC armed to the teeth; is now an ornate glass fronted building named after Ireland's most notoriously self-destructive footballer. But as the car rolled out onto the road, the airport gave way to the docklands of East Belfast, where the twin cranes of Harland and Wolff continued to dominate the skyline. Ruth gasped excitedly as the recognition hit instantly, before gushing a stream of Titanic related babble that Harry hadn't the heart to even pretend to listen to. In the blink of an eye they had passed from a genius sportsman who had drank himself to death, to a place made famous for building an unsinkable ship that was gulped down by the waves of the Atlantic Ocean on its maiden voyage. That, right there, was Northern Ireland all wrapped up in one beautiful metaphor.

"I wish I was an iceberg," he muttered darkly. "Then I could sink this whole place."

Ruth glanced over at him apologetically. "It's not that simple, Harry. Even taking continental drift in to account, the force of impact-"

"Joke, Ruth," he sighed, heavily. "It was a joke."

Ruth grinned. "Oh, I thought you were suggesting a permanent solution to the Irish Question there."

Harry made a brave attempt at laughter. But he enjoyed seeing the smile on her face. Whenever she did it, she looked like the nerdy kid at school whose punchlines went over everyone else's heads and she was the only one who got it. An awkward and gawky, yet ultimately endearing feature of her. Covering her hand with his own, he made an effort to shift some of the weight that accumulated in his mind, to make himself lighter. An endeavour made easier by the fact that they didn't actually go into Belfast itself, but skirted the eastern lip of the city before heading into the countryside.

The route took them through the foothills of the Mountains of Mourne, where they were afforded spectacular views of not just Ulster itself, but over the sea to Scotland and the tiny Isle of Man. Once, even these mountains were scarred by British Army watchtowers and installations, checkpoints on every bend in the road. Helipads and tanks; hulking Saracens rolling through the tranquil stillness and tearing up the local beauty. Now it was gone. Not even a fence, nor stray piece of barbed wire remained to tell of what once happened here. Harry looked out of the windows again, and realised he was seeing it for the first time.

* * *

><p>Ros and Lucas emerged from the back of their own car and thanked the driver. The air was clean, with a brisk wind bearing the first bite of winter on its restless current sweeping up around them. Rural, but not so far from the nearest town, also called Hillsborough. Belfast was thirty miles north, and still visible at this altitude. The Castle itself was easily as fine as any other in Europe, with lawns wide and immaculately manicured. Golf ranges, tennis courts and even a vast lake all made up the locale. Ros took it all in expressionlessly; mentally weighing up every brick and every petal in the gardens.<p>

"I think I could get used to this," she eventually said. "Shame about the hundreds of others who'll be getting in our way soon."

The talks weren't due to start for another two days, but they needed to work fast if they were to get every room in the place bugged before Wednesday. Then they needed to peg the risk level from about twenty different armed groups that all seemed to be active at present. That was before they safely transported the First Minister to Dublin and back, before stopping any local fighters of freedom from slotting any of the main players and plunging the province back into war.

"If we're lucky," said Lucas, taking her hand in his own. "There might be some bugs left over from the last summit that was held here."

Ros made a face. "They'll all need checking and updating. Best install news ones, if you ask me. But Tariq's bound to have some ideas."

Somewhere, at the darkest and yet most optimistic part of Ros' mind, she had hoped to at least give their first day or two in Northern Ireland the veneer of a real holiday. She had hoped that being physically unable to respond to an emergency summons to Thames House, and the Grid left far behind her, it might feel like a break. But it taken all of two minutes after their arrival for work to rear its nebulous head. They made their way inside, hand in hand and still managing to raise a smile, to find the others already in there. Nathan was sat on his suitcase in a corner of the lobby, despite their being chairs available, and texting someone furiously. Beth was leaning against the Reception desk and chatting to Ruth, while Harry grew argumentative with a man in uniform. In that instant, even the empty façade of this being a holiday crumbled into dust.

Beth's gaze jumped from Ruth to Ros, whence she proceeded to wave and actually smile. An act that set Ros' teeth on edge, but through which she endured with grace.

"Here they are," she said, more to Ruth than to Ros and Lucas. "Your room's sorted already, just check in and get your keys."

Lucas nodded his thanks as they both approached the Reception desk, where they were confronted by a woman so advanced in age Ros became fearful she was about to drop dead. But the old girl had sharp eyes that fixed them both in an uncompromising glare over gold rimmed spectacles.

"Mr and Mrs North, I assume?"

Ros and Lucas exchanged a glance, both quietly puzzled over the heavy emphasis on the 'Mrs'. Meanwhile, the old girl picked up a set of keys from behind the desk.

"Er, no," replied Lucas, magnanimously. "I'm Mr North and this is Ms Myers."

Discreetly, the keys were replaced. "Just you hang on a minute."

In the background, Harry continued his heated discussion with the Security Guard while Ruth became over involved in her conversation with Beth. Nathan had taken to pacing the floor while engaged in an argument with someone over the phone about Chairman Mao. "No, no, don't give him that," he was insisting, "it gives him diarrhoea! Just give him the dry food."

"What the-?" Lucas began, casting an askance glance at the new boy.

Everyone else had done the same. It took Nathan a moment to notice the fact that he'd become the centre of attention, to which he responded by flushing and covering his mobile. "It's my cat," he clarified, giving an apologetic shrug. "Chairman Meow. He hates catteries."

He immediately returned to the conversation, then took it outside. Leaving Beth to ask them why Nathan's partner wasn't looking after the cat.

"Who cares?" replied Ros, supreme indifference enhanced with a shrug.

Lucas tried to disguise his laugh as a cough. "I applaud his choice of cat name, though."

Ros' further involvement in the conversation was cut off as the Reception lady handed her a set of keys with instructions on how to find their room. It was already evening and no one would be doing anything else that day besides dinner and a few drinks in the bar. But Ros and Lucas already had other ideas about how to fill the empty hours. They hurriedly left the scene and jabbed the button on every elevator on the ground floor before hauling their suitcases into the first that opened to admit them. Without even taking a proper look around at their plush new surroundings, they headed straight for their room. Neither of them had expected to be put up in the presidential suites, or anything like as a grand as that which the local politicians would be holed up in over the next week. But Ros found herself admitting that one of those double Jacuzzis would be a good start.

When they reached their door on the fourth floor, they found it tucked discreetly round the corner opposite what looked like a store cupboard used by the cleaners. But they paid it no heed as they kissed each other deeply before Lucas could even get the key in the door. He had to reach around her as they carried on engaging in their vertical wrestling match in the doorway. After a lot of fumbling and blind jabbing at the door, he got the door unlocked and, still entwined in each other's limbs, they both almost tumbled over as the door gave way behind Ros. She threw her arms around his neck to steady herself, but almost brought him down on top of her, so he grabbed for the wall and just about prevented a disaster.

Then he got his first look at the bedroom and froze, turning his face away from Ros'.

"Oh, shit!" he groaned.

Suddenly anxious, Ros twisted her own head so she could see over his shoulder, to where he was looking. Slowly extricating herself from him, she looked at the two tiny, narrow single beds set six feet apart and almost burst out laughing. But the most obvious solution prevented any serious outburst of temper.

"Just push them together and to hell with miss prissy pants down there," she huffed, getting ready to give the bed closest to her a quick shove. But she pushed as hard as she could and the frame refused to budge an inch, causing Ros to almost fall over herself to the floor, banging her knee against the polished wood floor. With a high curse, she pulled up the over-hanging counterpane to reveal bed legs bolted to the floor. She glared at then mutinously, their romantic moment spoiled. "You have got to be kidding me!"

Still on her hands and knees, Ros looked up at Lucas who was leaning casually against a tall wooden wardrobe, hands in pockets and a knowing smirk on his face. "Now you know how I felt growing up in a God fearing Protestant household!"

* * *

><p>Ruth moved slowly through the castle, one hand brushing delicately against the gallery walls. Long, wide and airy, the gallery walls were adorned with ancient portraits of former Governors and earls of Ulster, dating back to an era that filled her dizziest dreams. A royal coat of arms took up the far end of the gallery, overhead hung ornate crystal chandeliers; light enhanced with large bay windows that looked out over the extensive grounds of the castle. But she was looking up, the points of light from the chandeliers reflected in her eyes, open wide as saucers as she studied the decorative lattice work on the ceiling. She wanted to touch it; to breathe in its heady scent of history, and epochs and times gone by in which the day she found herself had been inevitably shaped. From the Medieval part of the castle, she stepped through a connecting passageway and found herself in the Renaissance part, with its Italianate interiors and ostentatious glitz. From the Renaissance, to the even gaudier Baroque.<p>

Not long after dining, she had lost Harry. Last she saw him he was trying to figure out directions to the nearest bar, deaf to her pleas for a tour of the castle. "But Harry, we'll find a bar while we're on the bloody tour!" So panicked at the prospect of a night without whiskey, he had been made blind to common sense. She was here, on her own with just a leaflet collected from the stuffy Receptionist to guide her. Alone, that was, until her phone rang. She sighed and reached into her handbag to answer it before the caller rang off. The number was unrecognised, causing Ruth's anticipation to rise a little as she jabbed the answer button. She stepped into a nearby window bay to take the call, while looking out over the darkening grounds where the crescent moon reflected in the rippling surface of the lake outside.

"Hello, Rachel Evans speaking."

A moment's pause, followed by a man's confused 'er-ing'.

"Er, Jim Fraser here. I heard someone on this number was trying to reach me?"

Jim Fraser spoke with a soft, lilting Southern Welsh accent that made her think of Dylan Thomas. On top of all the Historical sight-seeing, it was almost too much. But Ruth pulled herself together and kept her tone casual.

"Yes, Mister Fraser, I'm from Human Resources and I believe we have your son working for us," she explained, failing to name any organisation or company. For all she knew, Nathan could have told his father something entirely different, if they ever spoke at all which was something she couldn't rule out. "I just need to confirm that."

"Oh … Nathan, is it? Nathan Charles Fraser? I doubt he wants you contacting me. Anyway, he could be working for the Russians in Timbuktu for all I know."

Ruth's brow creased into a frown at the throwaway line, but the wording struck her. Until the sound of light laughter made her realise it really was just a throwaway line.

"It's nothing like that, I promise," she replied. "We only check just in case we need to contact next of kin in the event of an emergency, anyway. That's all I needed to know Mr Fraser; thank you for your time."

The call ended and Ruth slipped the mobile back into her handbag. Her impromptu tour had been forgotten already, but she remained standing in the window bay where she carried on looking out over the gardens for several minutes.

When she did return to their room, situated at the rear of the castle in the old Medieval building, she found Harry nursing a whiskey in an armchair. Predictably. At least his Knighthood guaranteed they got one of the nice rooms. The other agents had been stashed away in little more than storage cupboards, from what she had heard from a highly disgruntled Beth.

"You know that number Nathan keeps ringing?" she asked, purely rhetorically. "Well, it's his parents."

Harry set the whiskey glass down on a side table and made room for her on the plush armchair. "So, it really is just personal then?"

"Looks that way," she concurred, getting settled beside him. "But why make silent phone calls to your own parents? And Jim said the strangest of thing-"

"Ruth!" Harry cut her off, giving her shoulders a squeeze. "It is personal, which means we're leaving them to sort it out alone, doesn't it?"

Taking the hint, Ruth drew a deep breath. "Yes Harry."

Harry nodded. "This is to be filed under 'None of Our Bloody Business,' isn't it?"

"Of course," she dutifully answered. "I was just curious, that's all."

Silent phone calls could have been a signal for anything. Ring a person, wait a few moments, then hang up. The length of the silent call itself was usually the encoded message. You couldn't be too careful in their game. But Harry was right, this clearly wasn't a matter for MI5, despite her niggling doubts. "But don't you think Nathan's made it our business-"

"No, I don't!" Harry retorted, cutting her off again. "We're about to spend a week sorting out Northern Ireland. Do you think we really need some convoluted family squabble piling in on top of that?"

Harry extricated himself from her, hauled himself out of the chair and crossed the room to where large French windows opened onto a balcony that overlooked the same lake Ruth had seen earlier that day. But he didn't go out, he remained with his back to her silently huffing away to himself. Ruth sighed heavily, letting her head fall back against the rest, pissed off because now he was pissed off. A mutual sharing of pissed-off-ness. Only the thought of soon trying out their four poster, canopied bed cheered her up. It was the sort of thing fairy-princesses spent the night in. A little on the excessive side for everyday use, but great to try out and be able to say you've actually done it and bring you one step closer to being a bit like the Queen. All courtesy of OFMDFM. Already she was thinking of what knick-knacks she was going to lift as a souvenir and cursed the smoking ban which meant ashtrays were no longer a viable option.

"I'm sorry," she said, addressing his back still. "I really didn't mean to interfere, Harry. All I wanted to do was check."

"It's not that," replied Harry, turning sharply to face her again. "There's something else, actually. Something I think we do need to look at."

Thinking he'd been annoyed at her, he was actually annoyed at a problem clearly mushrooming into something greater. She sat up in the armchair, giving him a silent nod to continue while worrying about bugs that may have been planted in the room before they arrived.

"The night Sean Mallon tried to contact me was the same night we had our 'visitor' at home, right?" he asked.

Ruth was hardly likely to forget. She could still see the man's face, hidden behind a distorted balaclava, even now. "The same night Ros also had an uninvited guest at her house?"

"Yes. And also, it might interest you to know, the same night Nathan's partner vanished without trace."

Ros was not present in her home at the time of the intruder's attempted break in, but the alarms had all been triggered and the police arrived at the scene shortly before she did. It was two hours after their guest had left, more than enough time to travel between the two addresses. But Ruth had had no idea about Nathan's partner. Nathan's private life, for reasons that were completely understandable, was exactly that: private.

"Beth was telling me," he explained, before she could even accuse him of interfering. "She was wondering why the partner couldn't take care of the cat and Nathan mentioned the, er, incident. Beth met him, the partner that is, while taking Nathan home after the Britain First Op. She saw the man herself, and said he was annoyed because of the state Nathan had gotten himself into, but not excessively so."

"What time was that at?" asked Ruth.

"About two am, by Beth's reckoning. I believe she'd had a few too many herself. Well, they all did."

Ruth worked it out in her head. "So, the mystery man turned up at ours at ten. By midnight, he had turned up at Ros'. Then two am, to Nathan's. No alarms triggered because both men were in. No, wait, it would have triggered an alarm anyway, at that hour of the morning. And we don't know what time Nathan's partner left, do we? We don't even know the man's name. Harry, this could be exactly what it looks like: a broken down relationship."

Harry shrugged. "Of course. I agree. But let's keep in mind the timing and the day it happened."

Still unconvinced, Ruth still stored the information in the reserves of her memory. "But why take the partner and not Nathan?"

Before she even finished the question, she had answered it. But still, she let Harry do the honours while she groaned audibly.

"Easy. Mistaken identity. Mr Anonymous perhaps doesn't realise MI5 has gay people too and takes the first man to walk out of that house. Or, it could even be deliberate and there's a ransom note waiting on Nathan's desk back at the Grid right now. At this stage, it's impossible to say. And then there's the third element in all this. Sean Mallon himself."

That name cropped up time and time again, but Harry refused to discuss him in any great detail. Now, Ruth decided she wasn't letting Harry get away with it any longer. She wanted the truth.

"Harry, who is he? Was he an old asset?"

"We wish!" he guffawed in response. "Myself and countless others tried to turn him, to no avail. He was on the IRA's ruling Army Council, you know."

The Provisional IRA's Army Council was a group of no more than eighteen men and women who together controlled every operation, every mission and every hit the IRA had ever performed. The faces and names had changed over the years as some retired, others discovered a love of politics and others were killed in action or arrested. But the function remained the same. Deadly; efficient; impenetrable. Only they knew what the next move would be and their lips were firmly sealed to the outside world.

"So what does he want from you now?" she asked. "He's never talked before, so what's going on, Harry?"

Harry finally move from the French Windows and crossed the room, to where a mini bar was set up nearby. From inside, he produced the whiskey bottle he had earlier and held it up for her to see.

"Fine. I'll tell you," he replied. "But you might want to consider this, first."

Sensing she would be needing it, Ruth nodded. "Thanks, Harry."

* * *

><p>Thanks again for reading. If you have a minute, reviews would be welcome.<p> 


	5. The 1000 Year Itch

**Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it really means a lot.**

**Diarmait Mac Murchadha can be, and often is, anglicised to Dermot MacMurrough. I have opted to use the Irish version of his name.**

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><p><span><strong>Chapter Five: The 1000 Year Itch<strong>

Where exactly did one begin with Northern Ireland? It was a question Harry didn't give himself long to ponder as he poured out two healthy measures of whiskey and nudged one over to Ruth. He held his own glass up the light, watching the liquid inside shine amber as he thought it all over. One could begin the best part of a millennia ago, when Ireland was divided up into four separate Kingdoms: Ulster in the North; Connaught in the West; Leinster in the East and Munster in the South. Back then, a succession crisis developed in Leinster where King Diarmait Mac Murchadha was going to absurd and highly illegal lengths to secure his realm. All four Kings met on Mount Tara to hammer it out between themselves. It was decided an outside arbitrator would be needed and Mac Murchadha selected King Henry II of England. It was a decision he would later regret.

Luckily for Harry, Ruth was better versed in all the ancient history than he was. She looked back at him with a smile on her face. "He was a Frenchman, you know. Henry II. Do you see the bloody French in here now trying to sort this out?"

Sadly, he was also the King of England and it was for England that Ireland was subjugated, all those centuries ago. An act completed on a bitter morning in November, 1171. The bodies of the deposed Kings went to join their forebears deep beneath Mount Tara, now long buried and forgotten by history. A baton of enmity passed from generation to generation. Now, that metaphorical baton was partially in the hands of Harry Pearce, in November, 2012.

That was what wore Harry down in Ireland. It was a conflict so old, so rooted in the ancient past, that no matter what he did it made no difference. He could have all the operatives and agents in the world, working alongside the most experienced soldiers, and they wouldn't make the blindest bit of difference. The old hatreds, the old prejudices, would continue unabated. The more they struck against the IRA, the stronger the IRA became. Because no matter what anyone said, no matter how it was spun, the fuse on every bomb that exploded was lit on that frigid November morning, in 1171. No one can win against a legacy like that.

To emphasise the positive, Harry at least conceded that the Irish Republic had been settled. One final act of rebellion when the central post office in Dublin was seized by Irish Republicans during Easter, 1916. The leaders were executed and martyrs were born in their stead. Civil War broke out, brought only to an end when the Anglo-Irish Treaty was brokered by a veteran of the Easter Rising, Michael Collins. The treaty proposed home rule for Ireland, but with the exception of Ulster. Collins was assassinated for his 'betrayal' of Irish Independence, allegedly on the order of his former comrade, Eamon De Valera. Then came the war of Independence, fought between two rival groups of Republicans: pro and anti-treaty. The pro-treaty Republicans won, and Ireland was duly divided. Ulster came into being, born into a tinder dry peace but with the timer already ticking downwards. Another war just waiting to happen.

"You can see why it's rather demoralising, can't you?" asked Harry, of Ruth.

For all it was worth, Ruth was patient. "You're behaving as though everyone's expecting you, personally, to end every hostility and solve every problem."

They had taken their drinks over to the large, four poster bed and thrown themselves like two children onto the mattress; curious about how bouncy it was. Finding it satisfactorily bouncy, they had remained there while they talked and raked over the ashes of Irish History between them. Meanwhile, Ruth continued:

"Leave all the history to the politicians and focus on your actual job," she stressed. "All you have to do is make sure no one takes a shot at any of the politicians and no bombs go off in the vicinity while they're here."

Harry sighed deeply. "I think you're wrong. I don't think there can ever be peace until we fully understand what happened here and why. Otherwise, we're tackling the symptoms of the Irish problem while leaving the causes unchecked."

Lying back against a bank of pillows, Ruth gently brought up one hand and placed it roughly where his hairline used to be. He could feel the tips of the fingers trailing slowly down the side of his face, and see the worry in her eyes. It was in her soft frown and loaded silence. He could see her point, as well. It was for the politicians to understand the deeper, wider context of the conflict. But their consistent failure to do just that was what led him and his team to keep coming back here and risking their necks.

"I feel like you're skirting around the issue," she said, softly. "I asked you about two men specifically, and you answer with all this stuff stretching back over the centuries. From Henry II, to the Peep-o-day Boys. Wolf Tone and the Irish Republican Brotherhood; King William of Orange and Oliver Cromwell. A famine that wiped out millions of innocent lives, while Queen Victoria sat on her fat arse and did diddly-squat to help. The Protestant Plantations and the Corn Laws. It was all very sad, Harry, but it's too damn late to fix it now. It's done. We need to help them draw a line under all that and move forward. The people here, they're crying out to be free not from one nation or another, but free from their own history. That's what I don't think you understand. All the times you've been here, you've been surrounded by the minority who want to keep the hatred alive. You haven't seen the silent majority who just want to live in peace."

Harry sat up on the bed, pushing away from her as he reached for his drink.

"You're saying my experiences here have clouded my judgement?" he asked, sharply. "If the silent majority want peace so badly, why are they silent?"

"Maybe they aren't. Maybe, their voices are being drowned out by the sound of exploding bombs and gun fights breaking out outside their front doors," she retorted. "And let's not forget the Irish History Experts pontificating about nine-hundred years of oppression at the drop of a hat."

Harry drew a deep breath and relaxed his tensing shoulders. He knew she was right and he knew he had skirted around the issue of Sean Mallon and Paul Kendall. But his understanding of Ireland, this beautiful and broken country, had always been opaque. Like the solution was hiding behind a veil, just out of everyone's reach. When he was on foot patrol round Belfast, he used to see an old saying spray painted on the walls and now, he had to admit, it may have been right: "Ireland unfree will never be at peace."

* * *

><p>Silence. Silence broken by the restricted shuffling and kicking out of bed sheets. Lucas knew that if he tried to move his left arm, he would tighten the unintended headlock he had Ros in. If he moved his right arm, he'd upset the balance and come crashing out of the narrow bed they'd forced themselves into, bringing her down too. The other major problem was that Ros couldn't breathe. He had his arm positioned around her in such a way that her face had been pushed into his armpit, while their limbs were wrapped around each other, holding each other in place. The only way Ros could breathe properly was by stretching her neck right back and twisting her head round so it was propped painfully against his chest.<p>

"Well, it's certainly brought us closer together," he said, trying to accentuate the positive.

Ros tried to raise a grin. "Any closer and we'll be spending the rest of our lives as Siamese twins. We'll just merge into one another."

She had one of her legs braced against the floor, letting a chill draught penetrate the sheets and bringing them both out in gooseflesh. Lucas tried to budge over a little more. Within the frame work of the bed, even an inch would be something. But the moment he moved, he felt his own bare arse inching perilously close over the edge, threatening to upend his centre point of gravity. He was about to make a suggestion, when Ros chipped in with her own.

"Just hold still a moment," she said, slowly releasing her arms from around his torso.

The end came swiftly. It was like bonds had been slashed and they both simultaneously rolled in opposite directions off the bed, propelled by some unseen force. Followed a moment later by a dual muffled thump as they hit the ground cursing. The bed sheets, wrestled between them as they fell, almost torn down the middle.

"We could try pulling the mattresses off the frames, you know," Lucas suggested, still lying flat on the floor.

"As long as they haven't been nail-gunned in place."

Tentatively, Lucas reached out one hand and gave the mattress a shove. It juddered, but moved freely. A sigh of relief sounded from them both.

"We could have just done this an hour ago, you know," Ros pointed out from the opposite side of the bed.

Lucas sat up, acutely aware of the fact that he was naked in a room that was probably rigged to the rafters with hidden cameras. Ros was in much the same state. It would certainly give the local prudes something to get their piss in a froth about. "We did make things rather more complicated than they needed to be," he ceded. "Ah well, when in Rome and all that."

* * *

><p>It was nearing one in the morning. Harry had just poured them another whiskey before they withdrew outside, through the French patio doors. Outside, there was little to see beyond the spotlights illuminating the castle walls. But a pale moon hung in the star-strewn sky, stretching out over the Co Down countryside, the peaks of the silent Mournes just visible as a rolling darkened mass against the horizon. They came to a rest at the balcony, a concrete ornate affair that overlooked the gardens. Ruth set her glass down on the edge, before turning to Harry, standing in a pool of orange light spilling in from their room. He was looking south, towards the mountains, and gestured with his glass holding hand.<p>

"Follow these roads, and you'll get to a place called Crossmaglen," he explained. "It's not even a town. Just a street, with a few shops and a few pubs. The rest is all farmlands and hills."

"I've heard of it," replied Ruth. "It's South Armagh, isn't it? The place they all called Bandit Country."

Harry laughed, giving a nod of his head. "That's the one."

He remembered once, driving along the narrow country lanes of South Armagh and reaching a fork in the road. The regular street sign had been replaced with one featuring a silhouette of a man bearing a machine gun. The caption beneath read: "Sniper at Work." That was the South Armagh Harry remembered.

"The man in charge of the South Armagh Provisional IRA at that time was Sean Mallon," he began. "In January 1976, he had just been released from Long Kesh Internment Camp. You won't remember Long Kesh; the inmates burned it down and the Maze Prison was built in its place. But back then it was still Long Kesh. Anyway, Mallon was out, but he knew the only reason he ended up in there in the first place was because of an informer within the South Armagh IRA itself. Now, there was no informer. There was a Military Intelligence Officer actually infiltrating them, but of course Mallon didn't know that. He thought it was just a regular Tout who'd been turned by Special Branch."

He paused there, making sure that Ruth was following. "The Military Intelligence Officer was Paul Kendall?"

Harry nodded. "He was still working undercover by the time Mallon was released, which was worrying for us all. However, he was … how can I put it? He was taking bigger and bigger risks all the time, trying to snare as many Provos as he could. We tried to pull him out, but we couldn't do that without blowing the Op wide open and losing a valuable source of information in South Armagh. So we left it, at his insistence."

When a natural lull opened in their discussion, Ruth found herself building up the scenario in her head.

"The Provisionals operated in cells of no more than ten to fifteen people," she said, pointing where things were going pear-shaped. "So if Mallon knew he had been touted, then he knew it would have been one of those fifteen-"

"And, naturally, Kendall was one of the fifteen," Harry finished off for her. "Now, I personally, received information that Mallon had deduced who it was and was going to 'out' them in a showdown in the Crossmaglen Republican Club that night. They would hold a show trial, there and then, and when inevitably found guilty they'd be taken away and shot. It happened all the time and paranoia was rife in the seventies and eighties."

Again, Harry paused as he collected his memories. After so many years, so many more traumas and a lifetime lived since that night, it was harder than he thought it would be. As with so many things in his career, it tormented him and seemed to grow in the tormenting. Even he didn't know whether he was still a credible witness.

"I was stationed in Belfast at the time, so I got in the car and drove down to make sure he got out of there okay. But I took a wrong turn. Missed the signs for Crossmaglen and ended up in Co. Monaghan, just over the border on the Irish side. I didn't even realise until I saw the street signs in Irish Gaelic. The weather was atrocious, and the car broke down as soon as I made it back. Had to run the rest of the way. I got to the pub where the show trial was being held, but I was too late. They were already in there. I had to wait it out, but Kendall came outside. I have no idea how he knew I was there. He came out and he spoke to me. Told me to bugger off back to Belfast, if I remember rightly. He went back inside; ten minutes later, a single gunshot. People left. I remember seeing Sean Mallon leaving, arm in arm with a girl wearing a bright blue coat and he was disarming the handgun, even as he left. When I managed to get inside, there was no body, just blood leading to a side door and out into the snow outside. No one's seen Paul Kendall since."

Harry fell silent, just as a small wind blew in from the gardens. Ruth shivered, wrapping her cardigan tighter around her shoulders as it faded away. Meanwhile, she mulled over what Harry had told her. He was bloody lucky the IRA didn't know he was there. But it still struck her as odd that Kendall did. In an age before mobile phones, it would have been nigh on impossible. Kendall was undercover, so off grid until it was safe to make contact with his superiors.

"It could have been a coincidence that he came out not long after you arrived," she said. Initially, she thought he'd gone out for a smoke, but it was decades before the smoking ban, as well as mobiles. "Maybe he was coming out at regular intervals to look for you?"

Harry shrugged. "How did he know I was on my way at all? We hadn't been able to reach him; that's why I was down there in the first place. It was freezing, Ruth, I was up to my knees in snow. There was no logical reason for him to be out there at all. Then, where did his body go?"

"Harry, fifteen people were taken by the IRA and never seen again," she pointed out. "One woman was taken from the midst of her family and never seen again. Another was taken from his workplace; another bundled off the streets. There was one poor sod that no one even knew about until his body was accidentally recovered while looking for someone else entirely."

The searches had been intermittent. Occasionally, a convoy of diggers and bulldozers would be despatched for the bleak, rural border wildernesses that formed the hinterland between the Irish Republic and Ulster. Usually, it was when some aging Republican suddenly suffered a fit of conscience and decided to reveal some information about where the bodies lay. Invariably, the digs found nothing, leading Harry to wonder whether they were punishing the families left behind. Did they get some sick kick out of it? Did they just like toying with the British Government, and these lost souls were merely another pawn in their game? Then, one by one, human remains finally began to emerge from the peat bogs of Dundalk and Monaghan. Information held true, and some of the victims were – after almost thirty years – returned to their families for a Christian burial. For the rest, only hope remained.

"If Kendall is found when the search begins again…" Harry began, but let the sentence hang, unfinished.

Harry directed his gaze towards the Mournes, to where the beacons once blazed to show Protestant King William of Orange the way to the Boyne. The place where the Protestant Dutchman soundly defeated the Catholic Englishman, King James on the 12th July, 1690. The Orangemen identified by their bright orange sashes, bringing into being that other uniquely Northern Irish tribe, the Orangeman. Until this day, the eleventh night bonfires raged across the province. Harry had seen them, tall as tower blocks; felt the blast of their heat as the infernos blazed against the night sky and choking the cities and towns in thick palls of smoke. Back in the seventies, they used to use rubber tyres, adding dangerous toxins to their noxious, anti-Catholic bigotry. Many Protestant communities were now being offered cash incentives to stop burning effigies of the Pope and Irish tricolours on their lakes of fire. But their hatred means more to them than mere money. And all that before they even got to the actual anniversary of the battle itself; when hordes of drumming Orangemen go marching through Catholic neighbourhoods just to drive the point of their domination home. That was when the real fun began!

The old song ran through Harry's head: "and it's on the twelfth I like to wear, the sash my father wore…" It was November, however. The Parades were done for the year and Harry was almost giddy with relief. But no doubt, that ever delicate issue of parade routes would raise its ugly orange head during the upcoming talks.

That was the problem with Northern Ireland. You thought you knew it; you thought you had the gist of it. But it's deeper; more complex, more entrenched than one mere lifetime can take to unwind. It is a minefield of nationality, religion, culture and history. All it took to set it all off again was one false step. Harry, unlike King Billy, didn't even have a few beacons to light the way.

* * *

><p>Ollie had his back to Nathan while he poured wine into a glittering chalice. It was pure gold, with a broad sweeping base, ornately carved. Like the ones the priests used in Holy Communion. The wine was a rich red so deep it was almost purple and matched the patterned rubies on the cup of the chalice. It was full to brimming when Ollie set the wine decanter back down on the side board. Then, a small sleight of hand that Nathan barely caught as something else was sprinkled into the wine.<p>

"I thought you were in New York?" he wanted to ask, but the words stuck in his throat.

Olly was home, and that was all that mattered to him. He turned to Nathan with a gentle smile, his black eyes shining in the reflected light of altar candles burning nearby. Candles for the dead; to free their souls from Purgatory. He bore the communion cup to Nathan's lips. Close up, he could see that the rubies on the communion chalice were in the shape of the red hand of Ulster. Beneath that, an engraving bore the motto of the Ulster Defence Association: 'Quis Separabit'. Nathan read it in its Latin form, translating roughly in his head: who will separate us? How strangely ecumenical?

"Drink it," said Olly, tipping the wine between Nathan's lips.

He only opened his mouth to protest. "You poisoned it," he tried to say, but the words were drowned out as the wine swept down his throat. Sweet as a dripping honeycomb, cloying and sickly. Nathan had no choice but to choke it all down, with drops of it running down his chin and throat. Red rivulets of wine, veining against his pale skin. His throat began to constrict before the chalice was even empty. Soon, he was choking and gasping for breath; fighting against a pile of bed sheets as he finally woke up, gasping for air. Even as he regained consciousness, the sickly tang of the wine remained on his lips.

He fumbled for the bedside lamp, flooding the room in a harsh white light. A quick glance in the mirror, and he realised he had bitten into his lip, causing it to bleed. Wincing, he dabbed at it with a tissue before rolling out of bed and fighting with the French doors to get access to the balcony for some cool, clear air. Once out there, he leaned against the ornate concrete railing and drew several deep breaths. Closing his eyes, he tilted his face towards the breeze, letting the cool air blow away the bad dreams and disturbed night.

"Hi there," said the woman.

"Bad night?" asked the man. "It's as well you left your boxers on, or we'd be getting even more of an eyeful."

Nathan froze, considered backing away slowly with his eyes still closed so he could pretend it was another stupid dream.

"Harry, you don't think he's sleep walking do you?"

"No, I'm not," Nathan cut in, suddenly. He turned to where Harry and Ruth were stood on the same balcony, not ten feet away. The colour rose high in face, as he saw them both grinning back at them; laughter barely concealed. "Well … er … I'll… you know…"

Ruth was leaning around Harry, nursing a drink in her hands, getting him in full sight. Harry leaned against the balcony railing casual, as if this sort of thing happened every day. All Nathan could do was limply wave an arm in the direction he had come from.

"I'll er, say good night then."

He turned on his bare feet, and cleared the space back into his room with one great leap.

Breathless, flushed in the face and smiling vacantly into the semi-darkness; Ros and Lucas lay side by side on the two mattress brought together. Slowly, they drifted back to earth; back into their own skins as their climactic night began to recede. They lived their whole lives triumphing against adversity, and this night had been no different. Their success all the sweeter for it.

"At times like this I wish I was still a smoker," Lucas admitted, slowly catching his own breath. All those post coital cigarettes of years gone by drifted through his head. Different women, different beds, different blissful carcinogenic brands. Always the same effect.

"Yeah," agreed Ros, still smiling. "That was fantastic."

And fantastic it was.

* * *

><p>Thanks again for reading, reviews would be welcome, if you have a moment.<p> 


	6. Toxic

Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. Thank you!

* * *

><p><span><strong>Chapter Six: Toxicity<strong>

"Don't you just hate the way their eyes follow you around the room?"

Harry's own dark, beady-eyed glare was fixed on the Renaissance portraits that lined the walls of the breakfast room. The same ones that Ruth had just been admiring as she sipped her morning orange juice. He emphasised the point by sliding his knife, in one slow and deliberate movement, through a stick of butter; probably visualising it as some unknown enemy's heart.

"It's like they know all our secrets," he added. "And they're judging us."

The one nearest Ruth was a later effort, depicting Oliver Cromwell – appropriately enough. Infamous warts adorning a long, grim visage that was almost indistinguishable from the horse he posed alongside. Oil on canvass enemies were exactly the sort of enemies Ruth could deal with; if only they could all be so still and so silent. When she looked back at Harry, she hoped her expression was at least sympathetic.

"Do you ever worry that you've been in this job too long?" she asked, offering up a toast rack as a form of distraction. But it was Lucas who leaned over her and helped himself to another slice.

"I'm judging you, too," he pointed out to Harry, grinning. "We all are. Honestly, the paintings are the least of your worries."

"Thanks, Lucas," Ruth groaned.

But the ill-timed jest seemed to have resulted in Harry's coming round, somewhat. His mood had been veering from low to mutinous ever since they arrived. Some blessed relief came in the form of a junior member of staff bursting into their midst semi-naked the night before. But after some gentle ribbing about being unrecognisable with his clothes on, even Nathan had slipped back into his default setting, somewhere just above sullen brooding. He sat at the long table sandwiched between Beth and Tariq with his grey-blue eyes fixed on a jar of marmalade, as though it had done him some personal wrong. Even Tariq's sunny disposition seemed to have set, as he grimaced at his own coffee.

Ros was the last of their number to arrive. Of all the people to throw some life into proceedings, it had been her. She swept into the room at her usual brisk pace before stopping dead in her tracks to take it all in. The oak panelled walls; decorative chandeliers; glasses polished to such a shine that they glittered sharp rays of the reflected morning sunlight. When Ruth first saw it, she forgave herself for momentarily believing she had accidentally wandered on to the set of Downton Abbey.

"Now this is a bit more bloody like it," she declared aloud to the room at large. "I expect we'll be having a bit of this on the Grid from now on."

"In your dreams!" Harry snorted in response. "You'll go back to your instant coffee and your unidentifiable soggy pastries and be grateful for it."

Once settled in the vacant seat beside Lucas, Ros helped herself to some of the toast and juice that had been laid out among the more exotic breakfast platters. Like the rest of the team, breakfast – if they got it at all – was a hastily grabbed yoghurt and lukewarm cup of coffee. If there was one area in which the Irish surpassed all others, it was hospitality. Something lost on Tariq as he held his coffee glass aloft.

"Stay away from the Irish coffee, guys, there's something wrong with it," he pointed out. "Tastes really weird."

Everyone paused, turning to the young Techie with ill-suppressed grins. Tariq frowned back at them, unsure whether he was being laughed at or with. "I mean it!" he feebly added. Giving the beverage a tentative sniff, he added: "The cream might be off, or something. Or it's just some weird blend."

Lucas cocked a single eyebrow. "It's definitely not a blend you'll find in any Starbucks."

Tariq was still blank. "Y'what?"

It was Harry, now barely suppressing open laughter, who ended the mind-boggling confusion. "They add a measure of whiskey," he explained. "That's the funny taste. Although Lucas here has just revealed to me to true reason for my innate distrust of Starbucks: what kind of a coffee house doesn't sell the best kind of coffee there is?"

"But it's eight thirty in the bloody morning!" Tariq countered, scandalised.

"Welcome to Ireland!" Ruth called over to him.

"Yeah, that waitress poured Guinness on my cornflakes this morning," Nathan chipped in. "No better way to start the day!" Then seeing the look of horror on Tariq's face, quickly added: "Joke! Joke!"

Once the chatter began, the strange dislocated mood among the team quickly melted away. They were, after all, still human beings who had woken up in strange beds, in strange rooms and in a strange country that was not their own. Harry was content to sit back and let them gel with one another again, adapting themselves to their new surroundings and, not to mention, cultural differences. Or not quite, as the offending Irish coffee sat abandoned at the edge of the table while Ros passed down a regular pot coffee towards Tariq. Even Nathan perked up and managed to look him in the eye for the first time that day. Which was as well, seeing as his mission the following day was going to be a vital one, for Harry.

As soon as breakfast wound down and the waitresses cleared the spent clutter from the table, it was time to move to the business of the day. Bereft of the Grid and its specialised meeting room, they had to make do with what they had before them. The control centre that would be doubling up as their headquarters was situated in the less grandiose Stormont Buildings. Not the opulent Parliament building that the politicians had built for themselves back in the 1920s, but the functional concrete tower block of a building five miles east of it. The logistics of them being spread out over such a wide area were already proving to be a minor headache, often seeming to involve Harry's physical presence in three different locations at once. But if there was one thing that Irish politicians shared with their English counterparts, it was not letting minor details like the physical limitations of lesser human beings than themselves get in the way of their grand plans.

"Right everybody, team briefing!" Harry declared loudly. Never had a sentence seemed to put people back to sleep so swiftly. "I do apologise for once more shattering the illusion that you're all on holiday, but this needs to be done."

After a few deep breaths all round, the torpid air of a leisurely breakfast was slowly dispersed as they all shuffled closer to the middle of the table.

"Ruth, the itinerary please."

There was an expectant pause as Ruth reached into the handbag that she'd pushed under her seat. Once she had it, she laid it out on the now cleared table top, where the others could see it too.

"Well, we have today to get the rooms bugged and rigged, then Tariq can safely set up in the control room here," she began. "They've made space especially for it in the attics, I believe. We have one Asset based in east Belfast to make contact with today. He's normally handled by Jo Portman, over the phone or whenever he's in London. But Beth's taking over while she's away."

"We're meeting in the docklands," said Beth. "It's where he always walks his dog, so it's nothing out of the ordinary."

"Thank you, Beth," Harry replied. "I also have a meeting to attend in Belfast City and that could take up most of the afternoon. So I'm leaving it to Ros to oversee the security sweep. If Lucas and Nathan could help her, I'd be grateful."

Both men nodded their assent. "The Republicans will kick up a stink if they find any devices in their rooms, and they're bound to check," said Lucas.

"So? We'll just have to be smarter than they are," Ros replied, sounding mildly excited by the challenge.

"Again, it's nothing majorly taxing for today. It's not until tomorrow that the real fun begins; that's when the political parties will arrive and the talks are formally opened," Ruth explained, after briefly consulting some of her papers. "However, William Towers will be arriving tonight to go over the choreography. Nathan, we need you to be back in Belfast by two pm tomorrow, so the Irish PM and British PM are both arriving at Hillsborough with the First Minister, at precisely three in the afternoon. They must all arrive together and greet each other in front of the press at three pm on the dot. Understood?"

"Understood," he replied. "What could possibly go wrong?"

"Nothing, if you do your job properly," Harry answered. "Dublin is a two hour drive away. So, you leave here with the First Minister at seven in the morning. You'll be in Dublin by nine, greeted by the Irish PM himself no less. Then a private meeting between Kyle McCracken and the Taoiseach which lasts for an hour. Then to the Memorial for the leaders of the Easter Rising. At eleven am, you start heading back. Okay?"

It was all about cross community relations. A Loyalist First Minister paying his respects to Republican dead; followed by the Irish Government finally admitting that numerous Irishmen died fighting against Nazi Germany alongside the British, despite the rest of the nation's policy of utter indifference. Neutrality, Harry unconsciously reminded himself, its called neutrality.

Nathan, however, still looked daunted and pale. "Can't somebody else do this? My last job was fitting bugging devices in the mobile phones of unfaithful husbands. Now you're asking me to transport the nation's political leaders across the length and breadth of Ireland."

"Oh no, you'll have a driver," Harry pointed out, gliding over Nathan's wild exaggeration. "Really, you're just going along for the ride."

"And to make sure everything runs smoothly, on time and that no one gets killed," Ruth added, beaming over brightly.

"So, no real pressure then?" he asked, flatly.

"Oh, Nathan, just do it!" Ros snapped, making him flinch. "If the prospect's really that terrifying to you, we can wipe the dribble off your chin when you get back and send you home on the next flight. You'll be back before the job centre shuts."

Whatever fight back Nathan had in him, he bit down on it and slumped back in his seat. He was almost pouting, or so Ruth thought as she glanced over at him apologetically. The others were used to Ros' temper, so the incident passed almost unnoticed. But for the silence of finality that had settled over them. Even Harry noticed it.

"On that note," he joined in, much more smoothly than Ros. "Class dismissed."

* * *

><p>The rebuke still stung as Nathan slipped out of their makeshift "meeting room", out through the doors and into the solitude of the gardens. Even out there, the shadow of the castle loomed over him as he set off across the lawns towards a large duck pond with a pocket full of bread. He hadn't fed the ducks since he was a little boy and he and his family still lived in Germany, the country he was born in but scarcely remembered. A pair of desolate looking Mallards glided across the surface of the water, leaving a glittering slipstream in their wake. The strange, metallic green head of the male shone as it turned towards him; his female mate a little slower on the uptake, had to see the bread being crumbled in his hands before she approached. He imagined their little legs beating frantically against the unseen current below the smooth surface, belying their outward serenity.<p>

He rather supposed his job was like that. An unseen force that was in a constant, frantic state of kicking, while the world upstairs in the open glided ever onwards. His own analogy made it almost poetic to his own mind. Dropping to his haunches at the water's edge, he didn't make his new friends wait for their breakfast treat and started rolling the bread into balls before flicking it over to them. Bills snapped at the air, closing over each morsel with an effortless ease. But the age of chivalry hadn't extended to ducks and the male butted the female out of his path to snatch away the fattest chunks. Maybe they were married? Maybe they just didn't love each other anymore? Or, maybe they had always hated each other and only stayed together for the sake of the ducklings, and had now forgotten how to live apart? This absurd inner-monologue made him equally absurdly sad.

"Greedy prick," murmured Nathan as he aimed for the timid female.

He threw it over her dull tawny head, making her flip over in the water and expose her under-belly. She brought up a streak of poisonous blue-green algae with her, tangled around her webbed feet. If he looked below the surface of the water, he could see tons of the stuff shimmering innocuously, pulled this way and that by the restless depths. Like everything else in Northern Ireland, all the toxicity remained beneath the placid surface. His so recent analogy of MI5 suddenly flipped on its head: here, it was the people above working frantically to make the abnormalities below into something serene. But look closely and you could see through it, to the sinews of ancient hatreds that continued to riven this land apart. But maybe that was what he had been doing, too? Fighting an endless fight to stay the same, while everything below the surface fell away to nothing. A single, bell-bottomed tear slipped from his eye, dripping from the tip of his nose and into the water. Small ripples barely registering as he made his personal contribution to its toxic contents.

With the last of that morning's bread dispensed, the ducks drifted apart again; supreme in their indifference to one another. Nathan got back to his feet and checked his phone. Once more, the gnawing silence of Olly wrung at his nerves as he swiped the tear track from his cheek on the back of his sleeve.

"Hey! Nathan!"

Beth's voice rang shrill in the crisp Autumnal air. He spun round on the spot, to find her bounding over to him beaming brightly. Blonde hair swaying jauntily with every step, she pushed it back with one hand as came to a rest beside him. She had a denim jacket wrapped tight around her shoulders, zipped up to the chin against the seasonal chill. Beneath that, he could see a thick silver-grey scarf wrapped snugly round her neck and under her chin. Such a distinct colour, he let his gaze rest on it for a moment.

"What are you out here on your own for?"

A reasonable question, since the entire team except him seemed glued at the hip. It was only ever Beth who spoke to him like this; as a friend. In response, he gave the ducks a nod. "Just thought they could do with some breakfast too."

The smile on her face drifted away as she held his gaze. A gaze under which he could feel himself being silently assessed. But she didn't say anything. She merely linked her arm through his and steered him away from the water's edge. They did not return to the castle, however, they set off round the side of it. Taking a circuitous return route.

"Tell the truth," she said, giving his arm a gentle tug. "You were brooding again, weren't you?"

Nathan drew a deep breath, and exhaled in a long sigh. "Sort of," he confessed. After a brief pause, he felt the need to justify himself further. "They saw me in my underpants last night! Ruth getting a full eye-full, while Harry just stood there with a big Cheshire cat grin on his face."

Beth tried to stop herself from laughing, but failed and reduced it to mere equine nasal snorting sound, almost doubling over with the effort. But when she composed herself once more, she turned to look up at him earnestly. "But that's a good thing. It means you won't have to do the initiation rite now."

Nathan grinned. "What initiation rite? The parading round the Grid in your underpants rite that no one bothered to mention at the interview?"

Now Beth sighed. "Mentioning it at the interview would defeat the purpose!"

Nathan shrugged. "Fair point. But seeing as I don't have to worry about it now, it's all good."

All good, he thought to himself. It was anything but. He didn't like the way Harry was sending Beth out on her own to speak with this old Asset in the UDA. It didn't seem right, to him. Tom Quinn wouldn't have done it, but that was his last employer.

"Are you really okay with this?" he asked, turning serious. "Your assignment for this morning, that is."

"Of course," she replied, dismissively. "The man's old, Nathan. A granddad with a colourful past, that's all. Anyway, we meet Assets alone all the time back home. Safer that way."

"Yes, for them," he pointed out.

"Exactly!" she retorted, firmly. "Nathan, you're kicking against Harry for the sake of it. Stop doing that. He's a good man; a good boss and he seriously knows what he's doing. Give him a chance and he'll give you a chance in return. As for Ros… well…. We all get used to her in the end. So will you; if you make the effort. Step out of that comfort zone you're in and start taking risks."

He knew she was only being sensible. But knowing she was right served only to make the task ahead of him seem even more insurmountable. He felt like he was being pushed into situations others knew he couldn't handle just so they could shove him off the cliff edge at their leisure. Sensing the continued downturn in his mood, Beth sighed heavily.

"Come here!" she said, throwing her arms wide open.

After a brief hesitation, Nathan complied. They held each other in a rib-cracking bear hug for several minutes, during which nothing more was said. When they did drew apart again, Beth turned away to leave. Her car was due any minute, but she was driving herself to meet her new Asset. They waved, before walking away in opposite directions.

* * *

><p>"Ahead of tomorrow's ground-breaking talks in Northern Ireland, the Irish Authorities have once more begun searching for the Disappeared," the pristine newsreader announced, before fading into footage of a desolate rural wilderness. "Areas along the Cavan, Monaghan and Dundalk borders will be searched according to new information released by the leadership of the Provisional Irish Republican Army. Among those still missing is British Military Intelligence Officer, Paul Kendall…"<p>

Kendall's image flashed up on the screen, an image mirroring Harry's last memories of the man perfectly. The big moustache, the shock of jet black hair. Only his blue eyes made dark in the black and white image. It made him shiver; brought him out in gooseflesh as though it were a ghost. Ruth was sat beside him, where she was able to put her arms around him easily. But he could see over her shoulder, to where the news report once more showed images of heavy machinery tearing up the earth.

When they parted again, he could see tears standing in her large, blue eyes. She tried to discreetly blink them away, but he had noticed and she knew he had noticed. He had not mentioned who that day's meeting would be with, but he suspected she already knew.

"You'll be careful, won't you?" she asked, struggling to keep a tremor from her voice.

He tried to smile. "Of course. I'll be back before you know it."

The newsreel ended; the screen going dark as Ruth hit the power button. Harry collected his jacket from the back of his chair, ready to meet his driver.


	7. Glass Bubbles

**Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. Thank you.**

**Sláinte Mhaith**: Good health (traditional drinking toast)

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><p><span><strong>Chapter Seven: Glass Bubbles<strong>

By the time they reached the foot of the Newtonards Road, ready to turn off into the city centre, the rain had started. In the beginning, those first few tear drops of rain were barely substantial enough to leave a streak of dampness against Harry's passenger window. But he grinned in remembrance of the Ulster weather and started the countdown in his head: three … two … one … cloudburst! Then it was as though someone had torn a hole in the sky as the rain came thundering down. Over the drumming of the rain against the roof of the car, another vehicle's horn blared. Startled, Harry almost dropped the newspaper he was carrying and looked up to see Beth Bailey beaming at him from the car beside theirs, waving enthusiastically at him from behind the wheel. He didn't get a chance to wave back before the traffic lights changed and they pulled away in different directions. The hire company had provided her with a metallic purple VW Beetle, the sort of thing Ruth might like.

Driving through Belfast city was like hearing an old song you thought you knew the words to. The tune was familiar but Harry found himself stumbling over the words and memories as they passed down old streets and highways that seemed to have rearranged themselves in his head. Once, there were large metal gates at the entry and exit of every road, even small alleyways. Now they were gone, with not even a trace of running rust stains to mark where they once stood. Gone too were the metal detectors in the entrances of every shop. They were no soldiers; no military vehicles or checkpoints. Two police officers of the PSNI, a man and a woman, ambled casually down the high street, chatting quietly to each other and drawing no untoward attention. Beneath their high-visibility jackets, handguns were discreetly tucked away. Ten years ago, they wouldn't have dared go anywhere on foot and those neat little guns would have been fully automatic machine guns, cocked and ready to fire at a moment's notice. The thought occurred to Harry then that, in another ten years maybe, they might not be armed at all. He watched as they passed, their young faces utterly unconcerned about anything.

It was only the layout of the streets, and the grand city hall looming over them, that remained the same. Enough to strike that resonant note of familiarity, but Harry would never have guessed where he was, otherwise. They passed a coffee house, outside which a waiter was hurriedly dragging aluminium chairs in from off the pavements and out of the rain. There were no coffee houses back in the day. No one stayed. A cowed and terrified public dashed into this city under siege and straight back out again. Smoking ruins had given way to glittering, glass-domed shopping centres complete with water features and stores selling designer labels. It would have been a cliché to imagine the phoenix rising from the ashes, but in that moment Harry could think of little else to compare it to. Like Cold War Europe, the Belfast in Harry's memories simply no longer existed.

As they reached the City Hall, they turned left and followed the one-way traffic system so they could eventually take the right-turn they needed to emerge on to Great Victoria Street. As with so many major cities in the UK, Belfast's traffic system appeared to have been redrawn by a posse of vengeful cyclists. When the driver did emerge on to the main hubbub of Great Victoria, the Europa Hotel loomed large on the right hand side of the road. It's adjoining train station now also remarkably free of security. Once, it had been the most bombed hotel in Europe. Harry recalled how it used to be stuffed full of bright-eyed journalists, waiting with baited breath and – probably – swelling erections as they anticipated the next explosion and a big, juicy body count to slavishly detail in their next report. Oh, how he had wanted to slap them all.

They drew to a halt outside the Europa, where Harry grabbed his brolly and opened it out like a great blossoming flower of black nylon to ward off the torrential downpours. After thanking the driver, he shoved the door closed and set off for the pedestrian crossing outside the train station. Waiting to cross, his brolly seemed magnetically drawn to all other brollies as crowds amassed, all getting tangled up amongst each other and causing a flurry of apologies and weather related wise-cracks all round.

As soon as the little green man flashed his signal, they all surged over the sodden road huddled beneath their newly liberated umbrellas. Harry turned right again, passing Robinson's Bar and the bookmakers, before pausing outside the Crown Liquor Saloon. He decommissioned the brolly while stood between the two ornamental marble pillars that formed part of the bar's ostentatious entrance, before heading inside. Established well over a century ago, it was a relief to see it still open for business despite the ever changing city that surrounded it. Inside, it was much the same as he remembered. Chromatic tiles on the floor, stained glass windows and a mosaic of a crown in the centre. Most of the public bar was comprised of intimate snugs, where diners and drinkers could have their own little space within a bustling space that was as likely to comprise the local drunks and bums as it was the journos, writers and artists that seemed to swell this part of the city.

At that hour of the day, however, it contained almost no one but the bar staff gearing up for the day and night ahead. Selecting the snug farthest from the bar, he deposited his brolly and coat before ordering real coffee from the barmaid who came bounding over to his table, almost indecently enthusiastic for the hour. But not long after the coffee arrived, so too did the person he was meeting. He almost bumped into the barmaid. "I'll have one of those as well, if you don't mind sweetheart."

Harry watched him as he slid into the seat opposite his. The years had been relatively kind to him. Unlike Harry, he still had all his hair (albeit more grey than black); he was still lean, but not as lean as he was in his youth. Wrinkles lined his bright blue eyes, the harshness of his Belfast accent was still tempered with the softer southern lilt; a sort of voice girls in England went weak at the knees for. But if Harry had been there to dispense fashion advice, he would point out that that moustache was pure 1970s. After this mental run down of Sean Mallon's aged appearance, Harry realised the ex-IRA man was returning the looks with equal curiosity.

"Well, Sir Harry Pearce, welcome to back to Belfast."

Casually, Harry stirred his coffee for a second before setting the teaspoon back on the saucer with a soft 'chink'. "I wish I could say I've missed you. But I'd be lying."

Mallon raised one greying eyebrow. "Wouldn't be for the first now, would it?"

"Touché," Harry laughed, despite himself. "How's Dearbhla? I do hope she won't be identifying your body tonight, after you've spent today talking to me."

As always, Mallon seemed to almost relish going to head to head with an old adversary. The thinly veiled caution was met only with a widening of the smile.

"Haven't you heard, Harry? The war's over now. Have you seen Belfast? Did you go through town?" He paused there, just as the bar maid brought his coffee over. Once she had vanished again, Mallon watched her go before resuming. "Seriously though, you and I have common enemies these days. The goal posts have shifted and the rules rewritten, and the bastards didn't even see fit to consult the likes of you and I before they did it."

Intrigued, Harry sat back against the back wall of the snug and watched the other man. He would have been a god send to the Dissidents, but he adhered to the peace process like super glue. Or, he seemed to. Harry hadn't forgotten his late night weekend 'visitor' and fully anticipated raising the issue very soon. But first, their common enemies.

* * *

><p>Beth parked the VW outside the Odyssey Arena and stepped out of the car, despite having neglected to bring an umbrella. All she could do was pull her scarf up over her head and silently curse as she took in her surroundings. She hadn't expected the Docklands to be quite so public. Besides the Arena, itself a vast and sprawling complex that played host to some of the biggest bands on the planet, there was a Titanic Museum; fully functioning film studio that at that very moment was churning out another series of Game of Thrones; bars and riverside apartments as well as vast boats moored nearby from all over Europe. Her eye alighted on a giant statue of a bright blue fish on the opposite side of the lough, peering at it through a mist of persistent rain. At least someone was feeling more at home in this weather.<p>

As she recalled that morning's conversation with Nathan, about the perils of meeting strange men in abandoned places, she took out her phone and turned back towards the Museum, arena and film studios, before snapping a quick selfie as a bus full of tourists zipped past. She texted the image to Nathan, along with the words: "now stop worrying". By the time the message's delivery report came through, a large and soggy greyhound had come bounding over and started sniffing hopefully at her jacket pockets. It was followed by an ageing gentleman huddled beneath a brolly, wearing a large jacket.

"Lady Jane!" he called, "Janey, come back!"

Beth scratched at the dog's ears, all the same. Besides, she recognised the man from his MI-5 file. Jim McDowell, a sixty-four year old ex-UDA gunman. It was hard to equate the man in the file with what she saw before her now. These days, he just looked like someone's granddad out walking his dog. There was no flashing signs; no identifying mark.

"Sorry, Missus, she gets a bit lively in the rain," he explained, bringing the greyhound back under control. "You must be Beth?"

"And you must be Mister McDowell," Beth replied, extending a hand. "Jo handed me your file before she left."

Jim smiled and returned the handshake, before hoisting the umbrella over to the other shoulder, so it also covered Beth. Just about. Then, they continued Lady Jane Greyhound's dockside walk as they followed the path along the waterfront. Instead of going towards the city, however, they followed the path out past the Arena, to where the shipyards once stood. Beth watched as the dog sniffed at the increasingly wild undergrowth, picking up the scent of canines gone by.

"Is this about the talks?" asked Beth, once they were well away from any crowds.

Now that she had umbrella coverage, she lowered her sodden scarf, sending freezing water running down her back.

"I can't say, specifically," he replied. "But the UDA are on the rise again. That worries me. They knew that MI5 would be coming here-"

"They could have guessed that, surely?"

"Of course, but they knew well in advance," he further explained. "It's the East Belfast brigade you need to watch out for, because I think they're planning on turning rogue."

Beth fell silent for a moment, mulling it over. The UDA ceasefire had been tenuous, even in the best of days. They still organised protection rackets, intimidated Catholic enclaves and shot the kneecaps out of any young buck they didn't like the look of. There had been several bitter feuds fought between internal factions within the organisation, only getting away with it because it was seen as private business, rather than both sections of the community fighting against each other. But lives had been lost, including innocent civilians who had been caught in the crossfire.

Soon, the path they walked along gave way to little more than a dirt track that led to warehouses that looked as though they had been abandoned long ago. But it was in these more desolate parts that Jim seemed to open up more.

"Before, it was the West Belfast brigade who turned rogue. The Brigadier in that area got too big for his boots and was running all sorts of drugs rackets and petty criminal gangs. When the North Belfast Brigadier tried to curtail him, the West Belfast guy arranged to have him murdered. Had him shot dead as he drove off the boat from a Rangers game in Scotland. Well, one UDA brigadier is never going to get away with having another assassinated like that. So the rest of the organisation united against the rogue elements in West Belfast and had them all driven out of the country. I'm sorry to say it, Miss, but I think they're all in Manchester now," he explained.

Beth stifled a dry laugh. "We know about them and we're watching them. Don't worry about that."

"Well, this is different," he stated, pausing to whistle to Lady Jane. As seemed to be the dog's habits, she ignore her owner entirely and continued to cut her own path. "Now, where we're at, the UDA…. No, scratch that, the working class Protestant areas think the Catholics are getting all of the benefits of the peace agreement at their expense. Patently not true, it's just natural sour grapes and all that. But that's the feeling on the streets, and it's leading to bad blood. In East Belfast, that bad blood is being exploited by the UDA leadership who're looking to capitalise on it and start another conflict."

"And what better way to do that than hit the talks that are being held?" Beth asked, guessing at where this was all leading.

"It's highly likely," he concurred. "But from what I've heard, there's already been some successful hits against the British Security forces."

Beth frowned, almost reeling against the revelation. She had heard nothing of it. "Like what?"

Jim paused as they reached a disused warehouse that was already half-consumed by the swelling lough.

"I can't say," he admitted. "I just assumed you would know and that it'd been kept out of the papers, or however you fellas deal with these things. But I heard they already had scored a hit against the Security Forces and that it would give you a good shake. Whether you can tell me or not, you can guarantee that if there's been one, there will be others."

Not having the highest of clearance levels, Beth had to admit that there could well have been something she didn't yet know about. But to compound how seriously Jim was taking it, the old man leaned in closer to her, whispering low in her ear.

"If truth be told, I feared it was wee Jo," he confided. "She is really only on holiday, isn't she?"

Beth stumbled over a rock jutting from the ground at that moment, but she steadied herself quickly and smiled. "Oh, she's fine honestly! She's soaking up the sun."

But Jim was already dead by the time she had finished explaining. The resounding crack of the gunshot and the old man's brains being blasted out occurred almost simultaneously and Beth had no time to react. His blood sprayed hot and sickening across her face as she screamed and jumped back again. Falling against a sodden grass verge, she only succeeding in sliding back down the bank and landing in the mud on her hands and knees. She rolled over on to her back, trying to work out where the gunshots had come from, while simultaneously pulling out her phone. But the freezing rain had numbed her hands as she tried to call the last number she had texted: Nathan. Cursing in frustration, she dropped the phone altogether just as it began to ring, but the world turned black before she could find it. A rough sacking bag thrown over her head as she felt her hands being forced behind her back and tied. Frantically, she tried to fight back, only for something hard to connect with her temple, seeing stars before her eyes before everything really did turn dark.

* * *

><p>"Right … right … right a bit more; no! Left again!"<p>

Nathan sighed in exasperation before glaring down the step-ladder at Ruth. She was craning her neck to look back up at him, attempting to direct where the bug should go.

"Can you at least try to be concise here?" he asked. "I can't go both left and right."

Immediately, Ruth was on the defensive. "I'm trying, but your idea of an inch is everyone else's idea of a yard!"

They were rigging up the rooms destined to be inhabited by a number of high ranking Irish Republicans. Lucas had already dealt with the phones, which they were probably too wise to actually use anyway, and managed to get a hidden camera inside the TV screen. So it was left to Ros to wade in on the latest one.

"Stand aside, both of you," she commanded, stepping into the breach. "I'll bloody well do it."

Gladly, Nathan hopped down off the ladder and relinquished control to Ros. Meanwhile, Ruth continued to steady the step-ladder. While he was up that ladder, his phone had been vibrating madly in his pocket, but his hands were occupied with the damn listening device.

"That was Beth," he said to the room at large as he went outside to call her back.

"Did she leave a message?" asked Lucas, putting down his latest phone tap.

Nathan opened up the text she sent, seeing the selfie alongside the museum and film studio. He grinned at the message, feeling like a fussy old man over what he'd said to her that morning.

"Oh, it's nothing. She just said not to worry," he explained, slipping the phone back into his pocket. "Right, what's next?"

Before anyone could answer, the door was shoved open and a towering man of well over six feet was stood on the threshold. His dark grey hair was swept back and under one arm was a battered, leather bound bible. He glared at them all, each in turn as he stepped into the room without offering explanation of his presence. They all turned to look at him in bewilderment.

Ruth was first to gather her wits. "First Minister McCracken, welcome-"

"It's been brought to my attention," he cut over her, "that attending these talks are, as follows: four fornicators, three communists, two homosexuals-"

"And a partridge in a pear tree," Ros half-sang, half-shouted over the rest of his sentence.

Ruth didn't quite manage to disguise her laugh as a cough. But then, neither did the others. Still, the First Minister drew a deep breath as he made a gesture of surrender. "The Big Man just wanted me to point this out. Don't shoot the messenger."

"No disrespect, but we're not the morality police," Lucas put in, gently. "Fornicating, gay communists is another department altogether."

Nathan was rather more blunt. "The Big Man?" he repeated dumbly. "You mean, God told you all that?"

McCracken turned a withering glare on to Nathan. "Don't be ridiculous, boy. I meant the Reverend. He can't come up here, so he's waiting downstairs and demanding to see Harry Pearce about it. Especially the Communists. The Reverend is ninety-three, you know?"

Still on top of the ladder, Ros looked faintly perplexed. "Since when has Communism rated above fornication on the mortal sin scale? Or have I just been going to all the wrong parties?"

McCracken sighed heavily. "Can Harry Pearce please come and allay the fears of the Reverend? What rates as a sin in your books is a matter for your own conscience."

Ruth, as ever, acted as the conciliator. "I'm sorry, Harry is at an important meeting in Belfast. Can I help?"

The First Minster looked Ruth up and down, testily as though trying to decide which of the three big sins applied to her. All the way along, Ruth tried to keep the benign smile on her face. But it slipped occasionally, as though she was trying to guess which of the three new deadly sins he was pinning on her. Eventually, she passed.

"Very well, but be gentle with him. He's ninety-three."

An amazed silence descended over the room as Ruth and the First Minister left together. All three of the remaining inhabitants carried on watching the door, long after it had closed again. Eventually, Nathan cleared his throat and pointed to the spot where the Minister had recently been standing.

"That's the guy I have to take to Dublin tomorrow? Four hours, trapped in a car with that nut."

"I'm sure you'll get along like a heretic on fire," said Ros, stepping down from the ladder. "We deserve a break after that. Come along!"

* * *

><p>Harry poured the last of his coffee into his cup while Sean Mallon continued explaining. So far, it sounded suspiciously like MI5 were being asked to share intelligence with the IRA, of all people. But, he knew their tactics; they always opened up talks by demanding the impossible and Mallon no more expected Harry's agreement than he was willing to give it. But when he did speak again, he recalled the masked man who showed up at his house.<p>

"Coincidentally," he pointed out. "This uninvited guest showed up within hours of you calling me at the Grid."

Mallon, however, looked blank. "Nothing to do with me. All I wanted to tell you was that the Real IRA are planning a hit on our esteemed First Minister, Kyle McCracken, and that it's happening during these talks."

Harry remained sceptical. "And why are you telling me this? They'd kill you if they found out; even if you are telling the truth about our visitor."

"No they wouldn't," Mallon countered. "Listen, we have as much interest in suppressing the Dissidents as you do. We're on ceasefire, Harry. We want peace. We want this to be a success. What did I ask you earlier, about driving through town? What did you see? Compare it to what you didn't see."

Harry pondered the question for a long moment, thinking back over his recent trip through town. Things had changed, no one could deny it. Given that the PM who brokered the peace deal here was the same one who tore the lid off the Pandora's Box in the Middle East, the slowly strengthening peace in Ireland was almost ironic.

"You people are every bit as bloody obtuse as ever," Mallon sighed. "But right now, it's like I'm living in a bubble made of tinted glass, looking out at these Dissidents; I'm banging my fists on the glass but no one can hear me. I can't do anything, except watch them repeat the same mistakes we made, back in the seventies. Do you know how scary it is to think those same mistakes could yield the same consequences? Do you know how frustrating that is? Because I think you do."

Harry had been in that glass bubble. He had been the one slamming his fists against the sides and screaming mutely at the dumb world, blindly traipsing to their deaths. But it was the likes of Mallon who put him in there. Mallon was the one who made the damn glass bubbles to begin with, when he was last here. Was this a natural transition? From paramilitary to peace maker, seemingly on the turn of a hair. But it never was as simple as that. All this had taken fifteen long, agonising years of step-by-step peace building.

"We're already watching the Dissidents, what more can we do?" he asked, shortly. "We have our own surveillance techniques, as you well know."

The two men fell silent, each looking daggers at the other. Until Mallon backed down and started toying with a condiment tray. Harry could tell he was still mulling things over.

"Everything I did," he said, speaking low. "I did because I thought it was the right thing to do. I did it, because we had a clear goal in mind: a united Ireland. Because Ireland is one country, just like you regard Britain as one country. Or three nations in one country. Each, you recognise, as a country unto itself, free to exist. But Ireland… That's another matter. What is it we have that you people want so bad, anyway? You have no need for access to the Atlantic, air travel sorted that out. You know you don't need our farm lands anymore. Face it, Harry, your people and your government would drop Northern Ireland like a red hot brick, if only it wasn't for the Loyalists holding you over a barrel."

Harry felt as though he had had a secret part of his soul revealed to himself for the first time. But even that didn't come without an extra downside.

"But you also know that the Irish Republic wants this Province like it wants a hole in the head," he pointed out. "No, really, the Dail is more than happy to let London sort out the Irish Question-"

Mallon laughed. "Poor you, Harry, someone expects you Brits to mop your own mess for once. How dare they!?"

Harry sighed heavily, quickly pulling back from getting further drawn into a slanging match. Once in that mire, he would never get out again. Meanwhile, Mallon calmed himself down by ordering two single Irish Whiskeys from a passing floor girl. When they arrived, he nudged one over to Harry.

"The fact remains is," he stated. "I am working for Ireland's interests and you are working for Britain's interests. Right now, they're the same thing. You and me, Harry, we could almost be each other. The only difference is that you once had a license to kill."

He held the glass aloft, tilting it towards Harry. He looked at it for a moment, before raising his own glass. The problem with making peace was that you could only ever do it with enemies.

"Sláinte mhaith," they chorused.

Their glasses chinked together, the amber liquid slopping from one glass into another. If it was poisoned, it would take out both of them now; in theory at least. Once, he told that to Connie James and he tried not to think of her now, as they both knocked the whiskey back in one. Harry set his glass back down on the table and looked Mallon square in the eye. "So," he said. "In this new found spirit of peace and reconciliation, perhaps you care to explain what happened the night Paul Kendall died."


	8. The Unknown Soldier

**Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot.**

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><p><span><strong>Chapter Eight: The Unknown Soldier<strong>

Once the question was out, that whole night seemed to play out in Harry's mind. The snow and the broken down car; headlamps flashing off Gaelic street signs and the frantic run back to Crossmaglen. A brief conversation with a man who vanished moments later and a single gunshot replayed in his mind, the blast echoing down the intervening decades. A trail of blood, frozen in the snow and shining in the reflected lights of an abandoned barroom – it made him think of rubies, then and now. Snow may melt, but people don't. Something happened that night, and he had waited so long for the truth. But would he get the truth? And if he did get the truth, would Harry recognise it at the truth? For years the IRA had played with them; fed them half-truths and snippets of reality. Just enough to raise their hopes, before dashing them again and making out to the world it was their own fault in the first place. The IRA were experts in the field of manipulation and distortion and they used their talents to far more devastating consequences than mere bombs and bullets.

The problem with the truth was that one had to trust the person telling that truth in the first place. Between Harry and Sean Mallon, trust was zero. They could share a drink and recognise each other's truce, but it did not erase the pain of their shared history; their opposing beliefs and contrasting means to an end. But then, Harry supposed, even an explanation of what happened that night would be better than nothing. Just one version of events, other than his own, to shine a light on what really happened, by someone who saw it all.

In return, Sean Mallon looked across the table at Harry and gulped down the whiskey in one. Eye contact held, flashes of that night repeated themselves over in Harry's head. Snapshots of disjointed scenes, from the moment of his arrival, to the point of departure, playing themselves out at will. Meanwhile, Mallon set down his glass and looked back at Harry, measured and unnervingly unmoved by the question. In the past, Harry had always been surprised at how in depth the IRA's anti-interrogation techniques were. For an organisation that had thrived on pulling America's romantic heartstrings (which always seemed inextricably linked to their purse strings), they were ruthlessly cold and efficient in dealing with the real business of their cause.

"I called you last Friday to talk about this – as well as something else," Mallon admitted. "You were to be informed that information had been released, that Kendall's burial site had been identified and the PSNI informed. Kendall's body will be recovered." He spoke with not even a flickering trace of regret or remorse.

Harry's throat constricted painfully as he worded a polite response. "Kendall's remaining family will be very grateful to have his remains; to be able to give him the dignified burial he deserves. But that doesn't answer my question, Sean. What happened the night he died?"

"I am coming to that," he replied. "The informer – suspected informer – who was tried and executed that night; it wasn't him, Harry."

Feeling a familiar kicking sensation somewhere in his lower gut, Harry felt himself double taking again. "Explain that again."

"I said it wasn't him, Harry," Mallon repeated. "I know. I remember. When I saw that man's picture – the one released by the MoD – I knew right away, he was not the man executed that night."

Mallon spoke earnestly. Harry watched his every facial muscle twitch, looking for signs of bullshit or cruel jesting, but he spoke earnestly. Whether Harry opted to believe this version of the 'truth' or not, it seemed as though Mallon did. Unless he was a good liar and the IRA had to be as professional at lying as MI5 did, when need arose. The recently kicked sensation returned; only Harry couldn't tell who was doing the kicking: the IRA or Paul Kendall.

"If he was not the one killed that night, then who was and where is Kendall now?" asked Harry, tone measured with every inch of his own self-control. "No one has seen him since."

Mallon shrugged. "Where he went after, where he is now, I cannot say. That man in the picture, he was roughly the same age as us, wouldn't you say? He'd be late fifties, early sixties at most, now."

"He was five years older than us," Harry clarified. "He was about twenty-eight or twenty-nine when he was killed."

Mallon nodded. "I thought he was an IRA man called Brendan O'Connell, right. That was his cover story."

"I can confirm that," Harry replied, unwilling to provide any more information about Kendall's cover voluntarily.

"He told me he was born in Sligo, but raised in London. That got around the accent issue, which you people always failed so spectacularly in," Mallon continued. "Well, this Brendan O'Connell was the one I suspected of being an informer. When I took it up with him that night, he told me he'd already found out that the Brits had someone planted in my cell of the IRA and it was them who ratted me out. O'Connell told me that this guy's real name was Paul Kendall-"

"And you had no idea that Brendan O'Connell was the real Paul McKenna?" Harry was aghast.

"Of course not," Mallon retorted. "It was rare the Brits got one over on us, so when they did their cover went deep. Anyway, O'Connell told me that Paul Kendall was one of two possible men, and that he had fed them false information to lure them to the Republican Club in Crossmaglen that night."

Harry's heartbeat palpitated painfully. Fears and emotions carefully, systematically dissembled so his outward appearance barely flinched as another memory shot to the forefront of his mind. He was in Belfast when Kendall's call came. He remembered the conversation down to the last syllable; then looking out of the window at the silent, eerie snow drifts and dreading a two hour dash to Crossmaglen in a clapped out civvie vehicle.

"You were there that night, Harry."

Mallon's voice cut through Harry's thoughts. He couldn't have known that. He couldn't possibly have known that at the time, because Harry would be dead too.

"He tried to trap you too, Harry."

"How could you possibly know it was me he called?" asked Harry, his face a mask of numb disbelief.

Mallon reached into his jacket and withdrew his wallet. Harry watched him as he opened it and took out two photographs. Both were slid over the table, face down, towards Harry. One image showed a young man, younger than Harry was back then, that he had never before seen. It was a black and white image, a boy barely out of school. He was in a squaddies uniform. Joined up to escape the rapidly expanding dole queues of the mid-seventies, probably. Harry set him aside and upturned the second photograph, revealing himself. It took Harry a moment to recognise his twenty-three year old self, posing in a 'borrowed' officer's uniform to impress Jane – at that time, his new girl. It was Kendall who took the picture.

"How did you get this?" asked Harry, his voice barely a whisper. He kept his eyes trained on the two images, side by side. Even as Mallon replied, he didn't look up.

"Kendall gave me them; said one of them was the real Paul Kendall and that the one who fell for the bait and turned up at the Club that night was the real tout."

Harry separated the Unknown Soldier from his younger self. "And this man got there before me?"

Once more, Harry remembered the headlamps of the car flashing off the Gaelic street signs; his curses as he realised he'd crossed the border and missed the tiny town of Crossmaglen. He recalled the engine packing in, and his crazed run through the swirling snow. He had been several hours late to that particular showdown. Kendall had been waiting for him. He came out and tried to send him away, but he had refused and lay in hiding. Whether Harry opted to choose this version of the truth, he couldn't deny that Mallon's story fit. An odd fit, but a fit nonetheless.

"He got there before you," Mallon confirmed. "And…"

His sentence trailed off, causing Harry to look up sharply. "And?"

"And it was Kendall who shot him."

Inwardly, Harry flinched. A small surge of nausea sweeping over him that made him drop both photographs. But once more, years of training kicked in and he schooled his every reaction. Would Kendall have done that to keep his cover? When one's life was at stake, who knew. Unthinkingly, Harry pushed the two photographs back towards Mallon, as though returning them.

"You keep those, Harry," he said. "I only kept them because my gut instinct was telling me there was something odd about that whole situation."

"So you suspected there was something amiss, despite him having killed a British Soldier?"

Meaning, his cover was blown anyway. Harry took back the photographs and tucked them into the pocket of his jacket for safe keeping. The story was too odd not to investigate.

"He was still under suspicion. But we were paranoid, Harry, if we shot everyone we suspected of being a tout, there wouldn't be an IRA. Still, I only saw the man I knew as Brendan O'Connell once or twice after that. At a Republican funeral and again in a bar. After that, nothing. When he vanished, I thought he'd melted back into the shadows of Special Branch, or just gone away."

From the tips of Harry's fingers and inward, everything was numb. He needed time to think; to process everything he had been told and he knew he wouldn't get that here. Hurriedly, he turned back to Mallon, bring their meeting to an abrupt end. "Dare I even ask what the other point to this meeting was?"

Mallon seemed thrown by the sudden change of subject. But he recovered quickly. "There's going to be a hit on the First Minister in Dublin tomorrow. It's coming from the Dissidents. The Surreal IRA, or whatever they're calling themselves now. I can find out more by tonight, I hope."

Once more, Harry was fixing Mallon with a shrewd look. "You're willing to help us thwart an IRA attack?"

"They are not the IRA," Mallon corrected him, unflinchingly. "The IRA are on ceasefire, unconditionally."

With neither time nor inclination to quibble the point, Harry merely absorbed another body blow and gave a jerky nod of the head. "What can you tell me so far?"

"Nothing besides what I just said," he answered. "I believe it's coming from Dublin, so it will be Gardaí's problem, most likely."

Another nebulous threat from another nebulous cell, one outside their jurisdiction. On top of everything else, it had to come first. But it occurred to Harry that if Mallon spoke true of this threat and really was helping, then it could prove helpful with everything else. Just this once, a tentative bond of trust resolved itself. Just a fleeting, temporary thing.

"Call me, if you hear anything else," said Harry, collecting his coat.

Before he got up to leave, Mallon look towards him again.

"For what it's worth, Harry, I am sorry from the depths of my being that any of this was necessary."

Harry knew he was referring to all the deaths, the bloodshed and strife of those thirty brutal years of conflict. But his mood of reconciliation was fluctuating, and it was currently on a downward turn.

"You and I will never agree as to whether that was necessary, Sean. But I appreciate the sentiment."

By the time he emerged into the persistent rain, he was shaking. He had also forgotten his umbrella, but he was in no mood for going back. Turning up the collar of his coat, as if that would help, he rounded his shoulders and nudged his way through the thronging crowds of Great Victoria Street.

* * *

><p>Nathan checked his phone again, before cursing the blank screen. If he looked over the handrail of the balustrade he was on, he could just see Ruth down in the lobby, talking to the Reverend. If he looked through the open door of Suite 202, he could just see Ros and Lucas fitting up the bugs, while Tariq worked on calibration not too far away. Out of the large bay window at the end of the corridor he was loitering in, he could watch as the rain hammered down outside. The duck pond he had been to that morning was having its glacial surface pummelled endlessly, its edges expanding as the water began to swell.<p>

That close to the glass, he could feel the chill draughts breaking through the window panes. Small rivulets running down the glass and obscuring his view, distorting the trees outside and making them bend as the light refracted. _It's an optical illusion_, he thought to himself. When he looked down at his phone again, his father's phone number was highlighted in a green backlight. _Do you want to call this number_? It asked him. _Yes_, he thought, before pressing down on the 'cancel' button. However, before he could slip the device back into his pocket, the ringtone trilled into life, lighting up the caller display to show "The Grid." Hurriedly, Nathan answered the call.

"Urgent message for Sir Harry Pearce," the switchboard woman said. "I repeat, urgent message."

If a person was capable of speaking in caps lock, Nathan knew it was her.

"I can pass that message on, but he's out at the moment," he answered.

As though she had not heard, the woman continued. "The body of one of your Assets has been found in East Belfast docklands. Jim McDowell. You must go to the Docklands immediately and speak with Detective Sergeant James Henry. Ensure Harry Pearce receives this message."

"Shit!" Nathan cursed, almost dropping the phone. "Detective Sergeant James Henry?"

He repeated, making sure he had the name right. When the woman confirmed, he hung up the phone and ran back down the hall, to the suite Ros and Lucas were still rigging. They stopped what they were doing as he entered, both turning to look at him as though he wasn't meant to be there.

"That was the Grid," he stated, breathlessly. "That asset Beth was talking to this morning has turned up dead."

Lucas was halfway up a ladder, but leaped the rest of the way down. "What about Beth?"

Nathan shrugged. "They didn't say. We need to get down there now and speak with Sergeant James Henry. He's heading the PSNI team down there now."

Ros was already reaching for her jacket; Lucas his car keys.

"Nathan, you're coming with us. But what about Ruth? She's talking to one of the party leaders," said Ros.

"We should leave her here, in case Harry comes back," Lucas replied, before turning to Nathan. "You keep trying Harry's mobile. I'll drive."

Beyond shoving a box under a bed, they made no effort to conceal what they were up to in that room before leaving it. Nathan turned to Ros, but she was set on her task and even Lucas fell silent as they all strode out of the hotel and into the downpours outside. They passed Ruth, still talking in hushed tones to the wheelchair bound Reverend, offering the old man another suck on an oxygen mask, which he declined in a manner most verbose.

Outside, it was freezing cold and the winds had picked up to a brisk pace that whipped Nathan's tie over his shoulder. As soon as he was in the car, he got his phone out to try and get hold of Harry. It was then he spotted the missed call from Beth. His brow creased in concern as he checked the details of the call. No message, but it came through two hours previously and a full forty-five minutes after she sent the selfie, telling him not to worry. Seated in the back, he had to lean forwards to pass the phone to Ros between her passenger seat and Lucas' driver's side. She had to turn fully in her seat to see him properly.

"It's from Beth," he stated, as Lucas started the engine.

Ros frowned at the screen for a moment, before looking back at him. "Try and call her back. Even if she doesn't answer, it might just mean that she's busy with the police. Until we know more, try not to worry."

He did as she suggested, hoping beyond hope that she answered. But a pre-recorded message from her network provider informed him the phone had been switched off. Or gone dead, he added in his head and feeling sick to his stomach.

* * *

><p>It felt like the world's worst hangover. A searing pain down one side of Beth's head, and she couldn't even move her hands to try and massage it. But as her wits slowly returned as she regained consciousness, the details of what had happened were swiftly drip-fed back to her, once piece at a time. She scarcely recalled the report of the gunshot, before everything became a blur and she ended up wherever she was now. The old boy was dead. She knew that much. She could feel a rough material covering her face, parts of it stuck to her face where the blood from her head injury had congealed. It was a sack over her head. When she dared to open her eyes, she could see nothing. But the surface on which she lay bumped and bounced, moving over an uneven surface.<p>

Cautiously, but still painfully, she managed to roll over on to her back. Even that was enough to make her head spin dangerously and the injury to throb. Concussion was likely, making her groan audibly. If she was about to start throwing up, she at least wanted the bag off her head otherwise it would get truly uncomfortable. But whenever she tried to move, the bindings at her wrist grew tighter, digging into her flesh and making her teeth clench against the sharp pain. Helpless to do anything, she forced herself to lie still and play dead until the van stopped.

When it did stop, an inestimable amount of time later, Beth went from playing dead to playing very dead. Despite all the pain, she regulated her breathing, keeping it deep and steady. Her whole body slowly going limp and useless as her senses remained on as full an alert as she could force them. She noted the sound of footsteps crunching on loose gravel as at least one person approached the door of the vehicle. The door was flung open, letting in a sudden influx of light that was just about visible through the sacking material over her head. While her body played dead, her own heart refused to follow suit and hammered painfully against her chest at twice its normal speed as rough hands dragged her from under the arm pits.

"Be careful with her."

One male voice spoke.

"I am; she weighs a ton."

A second voice replied. Beth made a note to kill the fucker for saying that, making sure to commit his voice to memory.

"Is she out cold?"

"Aye, she is indeed. Here, get that wee fella out here to help carry her. Tell him to get her by the ankles and set her in next to that other one."

Beth counted in the third captor, and made note of their being "another one" inside. Or was that another captive? Beth pushed all questions aside as she listened to what her abductors were saying. The time for analysis would come later. Soon, there were more footsteps, and some picked up her feet. She carried into some unseen building like a sack of potatoes. The rain was now so hard it was leaking through the sacking cloth. But she did not mind. It wet the blood that had dried on her face, releasing the sacking cloth that had become stuck to it.

"This one's bound to be more useful than the other," the first voice said.

"Keep them separate; don't want them conferring," said the second one, the same one that complained about her weight.

"Sure, we can keep her in the attic until the Boss is ready to interrogate her," said a third, who was holding her feet.

Beth had to fight hard against the cold thrill of terror that seized her. Only the prospect of overhearing more intel worked to sooth her blossoming fears and bolster her belief that she could get herself back out in no time. As well as whoever else they were holding. Someone held a door open for them, but Beth only knew they were inside when the rain ceased falling on her. Up a flight of stairs, and then another. They kept bumping her sagging back against the steps and on the corners. Every jolt made the pain in her head throb nauseatingly. She was left on the floor while the attic was made accessible, then thrown into a careless fireman's lift as they hauled her up the steps.

It was warm and stuffy in the attic. She could feel her wet clothes turn cloying as they slowly began to dry. But they left her alone, bindings in place, at least. Then she could stop playing dead and try to work her way free.

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks again for reading, reviews would be welcome. <strong>


	9. Black Square

**A big thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. Thanks.**

**For some reason my Office suite keeps autocorrecting Beth's name to "Bath". I try to weed it out whenever it happens, but apologies for any I might have missed in the proofing. **

* * *

><p><span><strong>Chapter Nine: Black Square<strong>

Rain hammered off the roof of the VW around which the three Spooks gathered. Ros stood in the middle, with Lucas to the left squinting through the downpour at the vehicle; Nathan, to her right, scrutinising the picture open on his mobile phone. Every so often, he swiped at the screen with his sleeve, attempting to keep the rain off; efforts made futile by the fact that he too was soaked to the bone as soon as he got out their car. But Ros could see the image well enough, if she looked over his shoulder. Beth posed between the film studio and the arena, the message "now stop worrying" emblazoned beneath the selfie. When her gaze travelled from the miniature image, the real thing appeared before her through the misting rain, only without Beth Bailey. It was as though she had simply been photoshopped out of the scene.

There was no sign of a police presence in the now desolate car park. Only other civilian vehicles; from between which a lone greyhound trotted into their midst. A sodden red leash trailed the ground behind it, a solitary splash of colour among the urban greys that caught Ros' eye. Quickly, she brought one heeled boot down on the trailing lead, bringing the animal to an involuntary halt.

Lucas frowned at her. "What are you doing?"

"It's his," she said, stooping to pick up the leash with a grimace. It was cold, wet and dirty after being trailed by the dog through god knows what. Nose wrinkled, she handed it to Nathan, pinched between thumb and forefinger. "Here. She's all yours."

"Thanks," he replied, flatly. Then wrapped the leash around his wrist as he brought the dog to heel without protest.

Instinctively, they all set off in the direction the dog had come from. Having already guessed that Beth and her asset had set off on a track away from the crowds, they found themselves following a narrow dirt track leading towards the shipyards nearby. Ros cursed quietly under her breath as the heels of her boots sunk into the rain churned earth, reducing her progress to a frustratingly slow progress. Meanwhile, the two men had to wait for her to catch them up. The three of them, standing in the rain without a brolly between them, like stuffed sheep. A bad day gradually getting worse. Even the dog looked pissed off.

"Look," said Nathan, breaking the tense silence. "Up ahead. There's a cordon."

Ros followed the direction of his nod, to where yellow tape blocked the path ahead between two disused storage sheds.

"Thank god," she sighed, picking up her pace. "Any nonsense from these people and I'll set that beast on them."

Lucas managed a wry smile, but it vanished as already a high-visibility jacketed Officer set off purposefully down the path in their direction. Moments later, he was waving his arms like a drowning man, shouting muffled commands to stop right where they were. Already riled, Ros drew herself to full height and increased the length of her strides. Now, it was Nathan and Lucas who had to jog to keep up with her as she prepared to take on the minions of officialdom.

"Go easy on him," Lucas implored as he watched the PSNI officer drew closer.

Nathan laughed. Ros ignored them both as she homed in on the rapidly advancing Officer.

"This is a crime scene!" the officer explained, once he reached normal hearing distance. "You can't go any further."

"We had noticed," replied Ros, taking on board Lucas' caution. "Take us to Sergeant James Henry, if you would be so kind."

She did not break her stride as she stepped around the Officer. He thrust out one arm to try and blocked her path, but she was already gone. Splashing him with dirty water as she trod in a puddle as she went.

"No wait, Madam, you can't go down there," he tried again, to no avail.

All he got in response was an apologetic backward glance from Lucas and a shrug from Nathan. Almost as an afterthought, Nathan paused a few steps away from the Officer and looked back, holding out the dog's leash.

"Do us a favour and hold on to this, will you?" He nodded towards the greyhound, sending fat raindrops dripping from his sodden hair. "We think it belonged to the victim."

The Officer looked scandalised, but Nathan merely hooked the loop of the leash over the other man's hand – arm still outstretched from where he had tried to block their path – and muttered a hasty "thanks". Freed from dog-sitting duties, he ran to catch up with Lucas and Ros who were now ducking under the yellow crime scene tape. Once he had caught them up, he could see the white forensics tent stretched over the crime scene, protecting it from the persistent rain and other outside interferences. People in white boiler suits came and went, none of them paying the three spies any particular attention. Someway up the path, where the dirt road widened to accommodate the storage sheds, police cars and an ambulance were parked, blue lights still flashing through the dismal air. From inside one of them, a Policeman appeared and pulled his coat over his head as he jogged over to meet them.

"Sergeant Henry?" asked Ros, once he reached them.

"You must be from MI-5," he answered. "I spoke to Miss Evershed earlier, I take it you're her?"

Ros couldn't help but smile. "Not quite. I'm Ros Myers, Section Chief; this is our Senior Case Officer Lucas North and this, at the end here, is our new Junior Case Officer, Nathan Fraser."

They each shook hands with the Sergeant in charge of the crime scene.

"Come with me into the tent," he said, leading the way. "There may be a corpse with his brains blown out in there, but at least it gets you out of this rain."

Before any of them could do that, however, they each had to don similar white boiler suits as the ones the forensics team wore. It made Ros' cold, wet clothes cling to her body like a second skin. She could tell, by the look on Lucas' face, that it wasn't exactly pleasant for him, either. But once done, they all headed towards the forensics tent and let themselves in via a zipped entrance in the front. Sergeant Henry sent the forensics team out the duration of the briefing.

"Once of your other Officers was with him when he died, right?" he asked, once they were alone.

"Beth Bailey," Ros replied. "We know they met, she contacted Nathan here, and she's not answered her phone since this morning."

The Sergeant looked thoughtful for a moment. "There's only one body, but I have already authorised the search for another. Do you have a picture of her? We could do with knowing who we're looking for."

Ros turned to Nathan, who had the most recent picture stored on his phone. She found the Junior Case Officer shivering violently in his newly donned boiler suit, hovering close to the exit and staring fixedly ahead. When Ros turned to see what had spooked him so badly, she saw where the tent had been erected and fixed against a steep grass embankment. Slumped against that embankment, an older man of roughly Harry's age or more was slumped, still with gore and blood seeping from a gaping, jagged hole in his skull. Over the years, she had honed an ability to look through the dead as though they were merely discarded shop mannequins, twisted out of shape. On a surge of concern for the younger officer's mental state, she quickly wondered how best to usher him back outside without embarrassing him. But as soon as Nathan noticed Ros looking at him, he pointed to something just above the body. Something Ros hadn't noticed when she first came in. A scarf, grey – black in colour, hanging from a loose, over-hanging bramble that grew from the embankment.

"That was Beth's," he pointed out. "I saw her wearing it this morning, by the duck pond just before she left."

Before she could form a reply, she noticed that Lucas also had spotted something. He had moved to stand near the feet of the body, leaning downwards so that he was almost bent double.

"What is it, Lucas?" asked Ros.

Whatever it was, it was half-submerged in the mud.

"It's her phone," he replied. "Can we move it to get a better look?"

The question was directed at the Sergeant, who produced a biro from his pocket before joining Lucas. Ros and Nathan also gathered around as the policeman prodded at the item, dislodging it from the waterlogged earth. The battery was almost dead, but the screen had frozen on the last call Beth had tried to make; the backlight showing Nathan's name and number, an error message informing them the line had gone dead. Instinctively, they turned to look at Nathan, who in turn kept his gaze on the phone. Ros could almost feel the heat of the guilt oozing from him now.

* * *

><p>By the time Harry made it back to Hillsborough it was almost dark. A premature, foreboding dusk that settled uncomfortably around the castle walls, matching his mood after the conversation with Paul Mallon. Revelations from which he was still reeling as he made the dash from the car to the castle, having left his umbrella in the pub. Once inside and dry, he checked his wrist watch and saw that the others would probably be in the dining room for their evening meal. However, after finding the dining room abandoned, he made his way back towards the main foyer. There, he finally found Ruth being regaled by leading members of the Progressive Loyalist Party, including their ancient, decrepit leader and First Minister deputy leader. Harry's stomach knotted as his gaze met Kyle McCracken's.<p>

As soon as Ruth noticed his arrival, she whispered unheard words into the First Minister's ear before rushing over to join him. He was taken aback by the furious look on her face as she closed in on him, before pulling him into the empty dining room.

"For Christ's sake Harry, where the hell have you been?" she demanded. "We've been calling you for hours now!"

Shock registered in his expression as he tried to fathom what had been happening. "You know where I was, I told you myself," he replied, defensively.

"Yes, dredging up ancient grudge matches while your junior staff were walking into ambushes," she retorted.

The unfairness of her anger smarted, but not enough to drive out what she had said. Shock hit him like a punch in the gut.

"What? Who?"

Finding his way into an empty seat, he managed to pull out a chair and sit back down without taking his eyes off Ruth, who soon took a deep breath and followed suit. Even though she had steadied her anger, she was still clearly mutinous.

"Our Asset in the UDA was shot dead this afternoon, during his meeting with Beth-"

"Where's Beth now?" Harry cut over her again.

"Ros, Lucas and Nathan are down there now, trying to find out. No one's been able to contact her. Harry, you should have been here," she persisted. "Tariq has been calling and calling. Where is your phone?"

He had switched it off as he left the pub, not wanting anything to intrude on his thoughts after Mallon's revelations earlier that day. Ever since then, his mind had been reeling, but news of Beth's ambush had driven that clean out of his head, now.

"Ruth," he said, covering her trembling hands with his own. "I'm sorry, but I'm here now."

Ruth calmed herself once more, her breath shuddering in her chest as she got her nerves under control again. "The bloody politicians are showing up early, too. McCracken still needs escorting to Dublin tomorrow; the talks haven't even begun yet, and now this!"

The more she talked, the more frantic her tone became. "Don't worry about that now. Let's just wait until Ros and the others get back and we can be briefed. Give her a call and tell her where we are."

While she did that, Harry buried his face in his hands. When he left the bar that afternoon, he had done so with the sole intention of finding Ruth at the first opportunity and telling her everything that had come to pass between him and Sean Mallon. It was a story that was already becoming muddled in his head, barely two hours after the conversation had ended. Once Ruth's call had ended, she dropped the phone on the table between them.

"They're almost back already," she stated. "There was no sign of Beth anywhere."

Harry slowly released the breath he didn't even realise he had been holding in a long sigh. Leaning back in his seat, he looked up at the high ceiling that was barely visible in the ill-lit gloom. Jim McDowell was normally handled by Jo and even that, since the peace agreement, was once every other blue moon as Northern Ireland slowly stabilised. It was difficult for Harry to even recall exactly how useful the man had been to them. But now he was dead, and one of their Operatives vanished into thin air. A scenario that had a bitter taste of history repeating itself to Harry. Another trail gone cold; another body unaccounted for. But at least this time he knew for sure who's that body was. Finding himself already thinking of Beth in the past tense, he almost kicked himself.

"We're not going to let this happen again," he said, looking back at Ruth. He could feel the resolve slowly solidifying in his head: the dogged determination to get Beth back before she joined the others in an unmarked grave in some desolate, god-forsaken bog land.

Her expression darkened. "What?"

He realised she had no idea what he was talking about. But all that was too much to explain now. "Nothing," he said. "I'll tell you later, once we've seen the others."

The look in her eyes told in him she thought she was being brushed off again, but he really did not have time to go through everything Mallon had told him. But even so, he could feel the weight of the two photographs he had been given sitting in his breast pocket. One of him; the other of an unknown soldier. Before he could even reach them, the double doors of the dining room opened and the over-head lights flickered on as Ros, Lucas and Nathan all strode into the room. All soaked, pale and shivering after their ordeal.

"Well, what have you been able to find out?" asked Harry, before they had even claimed seats at the table.

Ros and Lucas beside Harry and Ruth, facing each other in a similar manner. Both ashen and grave. Nathan, meanwhile, perched at the far end, keeping himself to himself as he brooded. Harry glared at him. "Have we done something to offend you?"

Jolted, Nathan snapped round to look back at Harry in silence, before shaking his head. Taking the hint, however, he moved to sit beside Lucas. It was Ros who filled them in.

"We saw McDowell's body, so he's definitely dead. Nathan was able to identify a scarf belonging to Beth that had gotten tangled on some undergrowth. Lucas found her phone half buried in the mud. She had been trying to phone Nathan when she was taken. We have no idea who could have done this."

Finding somewhere to direct his pent up frustration, Harry glowered down the table towards Nathan. The Junior Case Officer, however, kept his own distant gaze directed at his lap, only serving to increase Harry's ire. "And where were you while Beth was trying to raise the alarm?"

Nathan flinched against the undertone of rebuke in Harry's voice. Slowly, he looked up at his boss apologetically, but stammered over his own excuses.

"I didn't hear the phone ring-" he began, but Ros stepped in on his behalf.

"He was with us the whole time, Harry. There's no fault with Nathan."

Then, Lucas leaned forwards, bracing his elbows against the table top as he too took a turn in calming the boss. "Even if he had heard the phone, we could have done nothing to prevent what happened, Harry. We would have just found out an hour or so sooner."

Nathan's anxious gaze was darting between each of his superiors, before finally resting on Harry. "I am sorry," he said, stammering once more. "It was a mistake." Colour stole into his face as he realised how lame the words sounded, even in his own ears.

Reining in the rest of his temper, Harry slowly backed down and released Nathan from his jaws. With the exception of Nathan, who still contemplated his own lap, the others were once more looking to him to provide answers he simply did not have. He couldn't begin to guess at who had taken Beth, or where and less still, why. But in the fog of confusion, one small clue slotted into place, a starters block at least.

"McDowell was shot right in front of Beth, while he was divulging information on the UDA, so it's a safe bet that he was shot by his own side," he began, formulating a theory in the darkness. "The same people who shot McDowell probably also took Beth. Chances are, as an MI5 Operative, she will be useful to them – so they will want to keep her alive."

Harry left the added 'for now' unspoken, as the memory of Zafar Younis sprang into his mind once more. He looked Ros, wondering whether she was thinking the same thing, but she was impossible to read. Tortured for information before being sold on, the thought of that happening to his team once more made him want to vomit.

"So, we need to find a way in with the UDA-" began Ros.

"I can do it!" Nathan interjected, a little too enthusiastically for Harry's liking.

"No, you can't," Harry retorted, firmly.

"Why not?" he demanded, hotly. "I intercepted Britain First, didn't I?"

"Yes, we know," explained Harry, trying to keep his tone even. "But I need highly experienced officers in there who will keep cool heads and not go charging in without thinking."

Nathan looked as though he had been slapped, but sat back in his seat and offered no further protest. The others held their tongues, until Ros spoke again, making no reference to Nathan's outburst.

"As I was saying, we need a way in with the Ulster Defence Association. They're British Loyalists, so at least our nationality won't pose a major obstacle. Lucas and I can take care of it, Harry. You and the others just make sure the talks pass off without a hitch."

"Thank you, Ros," he replied, gratefully. He noted, also, Lucas' automatic involvement brought a flush of confidence to the Senior Case Officer's face too. At least someone was happy.

* * *

><p>That evening, Nathan sat in the bar nursing a vodka and lemonade. His table was out of the way, set back from the bar and even if there had been other patrons, they wouldn't have bothered him. The silence was unpunctuated, except for the mildly irritating squeaking noise as the under-employed barman passed the time by polishing glasses with a linen cloth. Otherwise, he was free to think things through as he stared into the clear depths of his drink.<p>

He had viewed his move to MI5 as a step up in life. Especially after Tom Quinn had virtually put a gun to his head when he initially refused the commendation (purely through a sense of loyalty to his former employer). But it had cost him his relationship; his piece of mind and now, the only friend he had made since his big step up in the world of espionage. When he thought of Beth, a mushroom cloud of guilt obscured his vision. What had he been doing when she tried to call him? No matter what the others said, he couldn't help but blame himself. Like Oliver, Beth had dropped out of his life in the blink of an eye, leaving barely a trace in her wake. Hanging on to his friends was like clutching at smoke.

Once, he visited an art museum and sat in front of the Black Square. It was just a black square on a white background. He could recall, with great clarity, sitting there and thinking: "it's just a square." Why did that Russian guy even bother to paint it? What was the point? It was only after a good half an hour that he realised it succeeded in capturing his attention, regardless of what it was. It was only after looking twice, that he realised it wasn't a square at all. Its angles were ever so slightly irregular, not quite in line with the borders. Barely perceptible, but there all the same. He moved closer then, and noticed that the square wasn't even black. It was composed of numerous colours and shades, none of which was black at all. It was all there – all the differences in shade, all the contrasting colours and angles and shapes. He only had to look at it the right way, with an open mind, and the truth came slowly edging inwards.

He wished he could apply the same logic to Olly and Beth. But while the others blamed him for what had happened to Beth, they also denied him the opportunity to put things right. Harry had been adamant about that, to his eternal dismay. If she was dead, he knew he would carry the guilt to his grave.

Before he could tie himself in any more knots, a newspaper landed at his side with a high thump. It made his jump out his skin, but he whirled round in his seat to see the broad face of Sir Harry Pearce looking gravely down at him.

"Sir Harry!" he gasped, getting quickly to his feet.

Harry raised a hand, motioning for him to remain seated. "What are you drinking?"

Feeling another rebuke coming on, Nathan looked guiltily at his vodka and lemonade.

"It's lemonade," he replied, looking back up at Harry. "And vodka," he added, unable to lie to his boss. "It's only the one; I am sorry."

"So you should be," Harry retorted. "Spoiling a good drink with sugary pop. How old are you? Thirteen?"

With that, Harry draped his jacket over the back of the vacant chair opposite Nathan and sauntered over to the bar. He could overhear the man ordering a whiskey and a vodka, neat, no traces of sugary pop anywhere near either of them. Despite his louring mood, Nathan couldn't help but grin. Like the Black Square, nothing was at it seemed – not even a telling off from the boss.

Harry returned moments later with both their drinks, and nudged the vodka over to Nathan before sitting down. The two of them faced each other, while Nathan thanked him for the drink. Meanwhile, Harry retrieved his copy of the Belfast Telegraph, but only to fold it neatly away. His gaze remained trained on Nathan.

"You do understand why I did not permit you to go undercover with the UDA, don't you?" he asked.

Nathan nodded, then hazarded a guess. "Too new."

"No," Harry replied, mildly. "Because you blame yourself, which leaves you susceptible to unthinking and normally fatal heroics."

Nathan flushed. "But I am not the only who blames me, am I?"

"Ros doesn't. Nor does Lucas, nor Ruth. I bet Beth won't either. Nor, for that matter, do I," said Harry, before taking a small sip of whiskey. "Temper sometimes gets the better of us all, Nathan."

He recognised the shrouded apology.

"I understand more fully now," he replied. "But, please, I still want to help. I promise I'll do everything Ros tells me."

Harry's gaze locked into his own, dark green meeting azure blue and glinting. Nathan could feel himself being methodically weighed up. "You will be helping. But what that help consists of may yet expand considerably."

As well as recognising that earlier apology, Nathan also recognised the fact that he had gotten all he would get out of Harry on that front, for tonight. He would have to prove himself.

"First Minister McCracken used to be in the UDA, didn't he?" asked Nathan. "Or the UVF? Either way, they're connected. Maybe I could get information from him tomorrow, during the Dublin trip."

The suggestion earned a smile of approval from his boss, causing a flicker of pride in him.

"There you go, you see. There's plenty of ways to be of vital help without charging in to the nearest UDA drinking den and getting yourself shot. Engage your brain – according to Tom Quinn that was always your strong point."

Nathan flushed again. "I'm sorry-"

"And stop apologising," Harry sighed. "Anyway, I needed to see you regardless. You know Ruth and I had a visitor to our house last Saturday night. Then, two hours later, so did Ros."

Nathan had been distracted at the time, but he remembered them talking about it. "Yes. I hope Miss Evershed – er, Lady Pearce, I mean – was not shaken?"

Harry laughed drily. "Don't let her hear you calling her Lady Pearce," he said. "Her name is Ruth and I am just Harry."

Nathan cringed. "I'm so-" but he cut his own apology off, causing another laugh from Harry. But he soon composed himself.

"Now tell me," he began again, returning to his original point. "That same night your…" his words trailed off, as he struggled to think. "How do you refer to Oliver Jones? Your boyfriend?"

"Oh, you know?" Nathan inwardly cringed again. He was not ashamed; merely private. "He was my partner."

"I did read your personnel file before hiring you, you know!" Harry pointed out, but not unkindly. "Your partner vanished the same night Ros and I had our mystery guest, no?"

"I woke up the following morning and he was gone," Nathan confirmed. "He was angry with me for coming home six hours late, drunk. Very drunk. I think I threw up on him, actually."

"Nothing says 'I love you' quite like an arc of projectile vomit straight in the face," Harry mused. "But have you heard from him at all?"

Nathan still had the note he left, somewhere among his possessions. But Harry dismissed it.

"He could have been forced to leave that to throw you off the scent," he pointed out.

"But why?" he asked. "Why would they take Olly? He doesn't even know what I do for a living."

"Maybe they thought he was you?" Harry pointed out.

Nathan tried to imagine it. Some twisted part of him almost wanted it to be true, just to have an answer that didn't confirm his abject failure. But deep down, he knew he had been unequivocally dumped. "We were already in trouble. Olly just left, I think." But he couldn't be sure.

Harry took a deep breath. "Keep an open mind, Nathan. And if you remember anything at all about that night, do tell Ruth, Ros or myself."

They lapsed into a surprisingly easy silence while they both sipped at their drinks. The neat vodka burned at Nathan's throat, making him wince. A wince that caused Harry a moment of amusement, a smile that made the corners of his eyes crinkle.

"Young people today!" he moaned. "Your father was an army man, wasn't he? Based in West Germany for a number of years."

Nathan had been born there, in Berlin. The family returned to his father's native South Wales only after reunification in the late eighties. But Nathan scarcely remembered those days.

"He was in the Welsh Guards," he answered Harry, at length. "Then some other regiment. I think. I think he came here, too. He must have, I guess."

He stopped just short of admitting that he and his father no longer spoke. Even his mother barely acknowledged him now. But then, Harry seemed to know that as well. There was a look of deep regret in his normally passive expression; something Nathan could not quite decipher.

"Fathers and sons," he said, quietly but then trailed off altogether. "Well, it's never easy. But you've done so well since you came off the heroin."

Nathan choked on his drink, spraying it over Harry's nice shirt. The older man merely smiled beatifically, trying not to laugh again. But Nathan was trembling, feeling like old wounds were being forced open and exposed. It was Olly who had locked him in a room and left him there to climb the walls. He had beaten that locked door until his fists bled; cried out for help until his throat was raw and every nerve in his body screamed for the sweet oblivion only heroin could bring. All the while, he sweated and shook; vomiting the addiction clean out of himself. Like expunging some malignant demon, he had clawed at his own heaving body until he bled. It was all ancient history now, though. He simply didn't know what to say.

Meanwhile Harry looked sad again, his gaze returned to Nathan and held him there.

"You remind me of someone I once knew," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. Harry tried to raise a smile, but it was a limp affair that died at birth. "I only wish he had half your courage."

"I only wish my father had half your understanding," admitted Nathan.

"Maybe you just need to let him show it?" Harry suggested.

But Nathan only shrugged. "There was that; then there was the whole gay thing," he explained. "I think the two combined and just totally flipped him over the edge."

"Call him sometime," said Harry, as though he had not heard. "You've made enough attempts to call him, you should probably try talking to him as well. Preferably at the same time."

Nathan glanced at his mobile phone, where it lay silent and dormant beside his neat vodka. Maybe, he thought, remembering the Black Square. Maybe.

* * *

><p><strong>I have no idea whether an ex-user would even be allowed to join the security forces, but for the purposes of this story, they are. Thanks again for reading, reviews would be lovely.<strong>


	10. The Rocky Road to Dublin

**Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. Thank you. **

**Jim Dowson is a real person, who really did bankroll Britain First. I was going to think of a cover name, but he's only being name-checked for the story's sake. He's not actually in it.  
><strong>

* * *

><p><span><strong>Chapter Ten: A Rocky Road to Dublin<strong>

At some point in the early hours of Wednesday morning, the rains ceased. By the time the first rays of dawn were penetrating the darkness, a fine mist formed and drew a veil of opalescent grey over the distant peaks of the Mournes. Harry looked out at the scene from the balcony of the room he shared with Ruth; watching as the mist gradually thickened to a fog that would soon be rolling down the mountains to shroud them all. A solemn beauty that served the double edged purpose of making their morning task of conveying the First Minister to Dublin that little more difficult. They would have to drive at a snail's pace through the mountains, before hopefully descending to much lower ground and joining a motorway. But just for this moment, the brief interim between the dying residue of the night and the start of another frantic day, he allowed himself to see only the beauty. A moment of clarity in which the rest of the jumble in his head could reset itself.

Still in the room behind him, Ruth stirred from a night of fractured sleep. Beth's abduction and a terror threat in before the talks had even begun had kept them both from anything like a decent night's sleep. If he looked left, he could see the lights on in Nathan's room – an indication that the Junior Case Officer's night hadn't been any easier than theirs. Quite how Nathan had managed to bag one of the best suits in the Castle remained another mysterious aspect of the new boy's being. He could have sworn it was meant to be Ros and Lucas next to him and Ruth; not that it truly bothered him.

After one final moment taking in what was still visible of the mountain range, he returned to the warmth of the room. Ruth was awake by the time he joined her again, but still beyond the power of speech.

"Uuuurr," she greeted him.

"I'll put the kettle on," he assured her.

It was one of those travel kettles that fit in the palm of his hand. While he waited for it to reach the boil again, he turned to look out over the grounds once more. Thinking to take in the view of the mountains, his eye was drawn to a figure moving swiftly through the wisps of fog that had begun to accumulate over the lawns. Tweed jacket and thick wellington boots, hiking pole in hand as though he was about to take on Ben Nevis, the Home Secretary was striding vigorously through an indecently early morning hike. Harry snorted derisively before casting a longing glance at the bed he had only reluctantly vacated a half hour before.

"What on earth is he doing?"

Having regained the power of speech, Ruth was sat up in bed grimacing out of the window. They always did read off the same hymn sheet.

"Something I wish most of his colleagues would do," he replied, stirring boiling water into two cups. "Taking a hike."

"No, Harry, look what he's doing!" Ruth sounded utterly scandalised.

"He's only gone for a walk, Ruth, he's not-" he cut himself off as he turned to see what had offended her so. "Good god!"

Through the swirling mists, Harry could see the tweed jacket was gone. The wellies left beside a heap of clothing as the Home Sec slipped into the freezing waters of the lake, mercifully covered in a wetsuit, of sorts. Harry couldn't even put a name to the garment. Feeling like a voyeur caught up in something he was never meant to witness, the inevitable result being the images forever burned into his memory.

"Drink this and pretend none of it is happening," he advised a minute later, handing Ruth her tea.

"At least he isn't naked," she replied, wrapping both hands around the mug.

Now that the politicians had begun to arrive for the talks, security had suddenly increased tenfold. Harry had been informed of PSNI checkpoints springing up on all roads leading to Hillsborough, and just at that moment the distant hum of a reconnaissance helicopter could be heard far overhead, occasionally dipping lower to penetrate the gathering fog. At least no unexpected visitors would be intruding on the Home Secretary's early morning dip in the glacial waters of County Down.

"I'll be speaking with the Chief Constable of the PSNI today," he said, sitting on the edge of the bed. "He can advise us on the Beth situation as well."

"We need to talk to Ros and Lucas, too," she pointed out. "And is Nathan fully prepared for this morning's jaunt to Dublin?"

Harry recalled the conversation he had had with Nathan the night before. He had warned him of the threat passed on via Sean Mallon, but with no concrete information all they could do was prepare for the worst – however nebulous that may be. More intimate details of the discussion, he had not shared with Ruth, nor would he. For a moment, Harry looked back at his wife, noting the dark circles under her eyes – a souvenir of their broken night.

"Nathan knows as much as the rest of us," he replied, finally. "And he'll be using the time to try and extract information from McCracken. He may be all Saville Row suits and the King James Bible now, but he was a paramilitary once. He knows the people who took Beth; he knows who they are and where they hide."

Ruth looked anxious. "If he's as loyal to the crown as he says he is, surely he'll help?"

But it was never as simple as that. Loyal to Ulster and the Crown, but Ulster always came first and with it, those who 'defended' her. Either way, it was a test for Nathan. Harry drew a deep breath, wondering whether they had thrown him to the sharks, after all. But it was too late now. By the time Ruth was dressed, it was almost seven am. Collecting a hand gun from a locked draw; they left the room just as Nathan, next door, was leaving his. The three of them colliding with each other outside in the corridor. As always, Nathan was impeccably dressed with not an auburn curl on his head out of place. Something that would undoubtedly endear him to his equally well suited and booted political overlord and every little helped when an agent was working their way under the skins of the great and the good.

Following an exchange of morning greetings, the three of them set off for the reception area together. All the way there, Harry imparted as much advice as he could on how to handle a man like Kyle McCracken; where to apply just to the right amount of pressures and knowing when to change tack. Although he betrayed few signs, Nathan was nervous. Like Harry himself, he fidgeted with the knot of his tie and, when that ceased to suffice, took to pulling down his waist coat, straightening it so it was perfectly parallel with the waist band of his trousers. Before they reached their destination, however, Harry drew Nathan aside into an empty breakfast room.

"Take this," he said, handing over the gun he brought with him. "Holster it somewhere discreet; you may be needing it. Leave your phone on at all times; I might need to call you if Mallon gets in touch about this terror threat."

Nathan accepted the firearm with a nod. "Thanks," he said, just the faintest tremor of nerves in his voice. "But Harry, what if he genuinely knows nothing?"

"Then we'll penetrate the UDA and find Beth another way," replied Harry. "We never have only one option, Nathan. And he's bound to know somebody, so do your best."

The younger man managed to raise a pained smile, although only briefly. With that, they joined Ruth in the Reception, where she was chatting with the man himself. Kyle McCracken towering over her, running a hand through his neatly trimmed greying hair. Both of them fell silent as Harry and Nathan emerged through the double doors of the breakfast room. Outside, through the main entrance, Harry could see the twin golden orbs of light through the fog – the limousine pulling up outside. It was time to go.

"First Minister," said Harry, extending a hand towards McCracken. "Forgive my not coming to meet you yesterday evening, a last minute emergency cropped up."

The brief flash of curiosity in the First Minister's grey eyes gave Harry a moment of satisfaction. Now, he was bound to needle Nathan for information about that "last minute emergency".

"Not a problem, Sir Harry. Your Lady wife here more than made up for it," he replied in a broad Belfast accent. Those eyes narrowed as they fell upon Nathan. "And this must be Mister Fraser?"

"Ah, yes, Nathan this is the First Minister of Northern Ireland, Kyle McCracken," he introduced, although they already knew each other's names. Turning back to the First Minister, Harry added: "Nathan is one of our finest new recruits, who has already over-seen an operation to neutralise one Britain's most feared far right organisations."

Like Harry, Nathan had extended his hand to shake. But unlike with Harry, McCracken peered at it, barely concealing his contempt. Ruth blushed, her smile turning rigid as though tetanus had suddenly set in. Harry groaned inwardly as he once more became aware that not all of Northern Ireland's bigotry was limited to religion. But once satisfied that his prejudice and contempt had been recognised by all concerned, McCracken finally shook hands. To Harry's mild surprise, he didn't follow the gesture up by wiping the palm said hand down the curtains. Nathan simply pretended he had not noticed anything amiss, and followed the First Minister outside, to where a limo was waiting to take them to Dublin as the brief meeting was brought to a close.

Both Harry and Ruth watched it as it was swallowed by the fog, before returning to the breakfast room. By that time Ros, Lucas and Tariq had also joined them. Silent and restless, they sat and twiddled their thumbs, or paced the length of the walls and pretended to be interested in the portraits. Except for Ros who leaned against one of the single tables, lost in her own thoughts and chewing absentmindedly at the nail of her index finger. She looked up as they entered the room, pushing herself away from the table.

"Harry," she said. "Last night, the PSNI Super we were dealing with faxed over some information about UDA dens around the East Belfast area. If we can get a way in there, I think we might be able to pick something up about Beth."

Getting a way in was the problem, though. One that wasn't as easily solved in Northern Ireland as it was in England. Plus, there were scores of them dotted around the area and only one would be aware of what was happening. Unless they could get one of the Brigadiers to talk, they were on a road to nowhere. Even building up a credible backstory to get themselves in with the UDA would take too long. Unless they had the right cover story.

"Come with me," he said, leading the way to the top table. "Team meeting, now."

While everyone else got settled, Harry marshalled his own thoughts as the details of his plan slowly formed. He looked across the table at Lucas, who had his shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal dark blotches of prison tattoo. Another piece of the internal jigsaw fell into place. Before long, they were all seated, they turned to him. For once, he felt like he had a direct answer to give them.

"The Britain First Op was a major success," he began, seeing all expression crease in confusion.

"True," Ros concurred. "But that won't carry over into this Op."

"But, the British far right has always been closely linked to Ulster Paramilitarism. In the eighties, the UDA shared a lot of ties with the National Front and then, in the nineties, along came Combat 18 and then the English Defence League and so on and so forth. Now, Britain First was even founded by an ex-member of the Ulster Volunteer Force, Jim Dowson. Dowson has since severed all links with Britain First. But now that we've wiped out the controversial Britain First leaders who caused the split in the first place, I think Lucas at least can resume his Britain First legend and arrange to meet with the East Belfast Brigadiers in an attempt to restore these historic links between Loyalism and Fascism. There, we have our way in with these people." Harry paused for breath, looking around at them each in turn.

Lucas, especially, looked very pleased with the direction in which they were going. He was grinning, gripping his elbows as he leaned against the breakfast table. But Harry felt that an added note was needed.

"These people say they are loyal to the Queen," he began, gravely. "They call themselves Crown Loyalists. But their bombs and bullets have slaughtered just as many innocent civilians as the IRA's. They seek to control this province, and to kick half of its civilians into the kerb with no rights, no hope of any rights and without recourse to any form of justice. They pose as bigger threat to the safety of this nation as Al-Qaeda and the Provisional IRA, when they were active. Do not be fooled by what they call themselves; they seek to dominate and subjugate. We must stop them."

* * *

><p>A sudden burst of light jolted Beth violently back into consciousness. Screwing up her face and clamping her eyes shut barely worked; with her hands still bound, she couldn't even shield her eyes against the full force. She rolled over on to her front. But fibre glass loft insulation sprouted in tufts between hastily laid floorboards in the attic, she could feel herself breathing it in. Choking, she had to turn her face again before it could lodge in her airwaves. Before long, however, rough hands wrenched her upright and forced her to kneel. The glare of the spotlights was such she feared damage to her retinas. But as soon as her tormentors grew bored of that tactic, they shut the lights off again, replacing it with a single bedside lamp.<p>

After taking a moment to adjust, she was finally able to look up at the men holding her. But her vision was left monochrome after the bright lights. She could still see that they were hooded in balaclavas, and even wore dark glasses over their eyes. Their clothing was also dark: black bomber jackets and dark combat pants, with doc marten boots. All four of them. Pinned to the wall behind them was a large Union Jack flag and a framed photograph of the Queen. They each held AK-47 assault rifles across their chests as they stood in a wide circle around her, looking down in silence at her. Refusing to show fear to these people, she steadied her ragged breathing and looked defiantly back at them. She would not speak. She would not give them anything they could construe as any form of satisfaction.

"Are you Bethany Sarah Bailey?"

The fifth man's voice emanated from the shadows beyond the scope of her vision. She could not tell from where.

"I cannot answer that question," she replied, flatly.

The other four remained silent and motionless. Moments later, a small plastic card was flipped from a far corner of the attic. Her driver's license.

"That's you, isn't it?"

It was, but she wasn't going to make things any easier for them.

"I cannot answer that question."

"You're an agent of MI-5, aren't you?"

"I cannot answer that question."

The accent sounded odd. Ulster, but not Belfast. It was weaker than the rest she had heard. Maybe not local, but resident in the province for a long time. Accents, builds and height was all she could discern, so these were the small identifying details she clung to.

"Do you know the whereabouts of Harry James Pearce and Nathaniel David Fraser?"

Betraying no shock or surprise at hearing two such familiar names, Beth answered robotically: "I cannot answer that question."

There was a moment's pause, during which an assault rifle clunked against the wooden floorboards as one of the men put it down. He strode over to Beth and smacked her hard across the face. The pain was fierce, causing her to cry out involuntarily. But before she could do anything else, he grabbed a fistful of her hair and forced her upright again. A sickening tang of blood could be tasted on her tongue.

"Tell us where Harry Pearce and Nathan Fraser are, and you will be free to go!"

The voice from the shadows grew angry now. But the more they did to her, Beth resolved herself to grow more defiant.

"I will not answer that question!" she spat back at the unseen man.

Although braced for another assault, it did not happen. Her sentence dropped into a silent well, met with nothing short of indifference. Despite her best efforts to remain equally indifferent about them, she couldn't help but wonder if this was some tactic being deployed: good cop; bad cop. But the answer was even more baffling.

"Bethany Sarah Bailey, you are charged with high treason and of aiding and abetting the traitor, Jim McDowell in contravention of the Prevention of Terrorism Act, 1974. You will be held here until your trail, of which you will be notified at a later date."

They left her again. The lights went out fully, plunging her back into darkness. But she could hear the sound of their boots stamping across the wooden flooring, before the attic door was opened and they left via a set of steps connected to the door. It was fixed in place with a pad lock on the other side. Once alone, she resolved to demand a trial by a jury of her peers, under the terms of the Magna Carta of 1215 – two could play at that game. But now that she had a vague idea of what she was up against, she could formulate an escape plan. As well as find out who the "Other One" was, as well as where he was.

* * *

><p>Progress through the foggy mountains was painfully slow. But as they descended to lower ground, the mists finally thinned to the point where the driver could finally accelerate beyond fifteen miles per hour. Nathan watched from the window of the limo as the low-lying Irish countryside opened up to reveal farmlands punctuated by compellingly grim marshy bog lands. Even this low, wisps of mist lingered eerily over the churned black earth. Land devoid of life, but for a lone blackbird flapping from one rotting, weather beaten fence post to another in a quest for worms.<p>

About twenty feet from the roadside, a large Celtic cross stood shrouded in mist in the middle of a field. Wreaths of dying flowers lay scattered at its base, virgin white leaves spattered in rain and mud. Nathan sat up in his seat to get a proper look at it, not that he could from that distance.

"It's a pit grave," said the First Minister.

So far, Kyle McCracken had said precisely nothing. He had spent the journey sat opposite Nathan with his back to the driver, shuffling through papers in his briefcase open on his lap. Now, he closed it and removed his gold-rimmed reading glasses.

"There's over eight hundred of the poor souls in there," he added, glancing at the burial site through the back window behind Nathan – having already passed the site itself.

Nathan felt suddenly cold. "Was it the Great Famine?"

The Minister nodded. This looked like a place where people starved. Nathan could almost see their hungry ghosts crawling through the mists – human sticks, dressed in rags; falling dead where they stood, in the endless barren fields. Meanwhile, the First Minister was gazing contemplatively out of the passenger window, deep in thought.

"There's more in Belfast, did you know that?" he asked, turning once more to Nathan.

"I really don't know much about Irish History, beyond the bare facts," he replied, honestly. "I thought it happened mostly in the Republic, though. In Galway and Mayo."

The Minister raised a reigned smile. "Exactly," he sighed. "Three million people died over the course of three years. Then there were the smaller, sporadic crop failures – the ones even Republicans forget about. You're right, son, I'll give you Mayo. Mayo was the worst hit and there's still abandoned villages there now. But no one stops to consider the Ulster victims. They think the famine stopped where the border lies now, as though the Blight reached Dundalk and thought to itself: 'nah, I'll not bother them Protestant ones.' Thousands of Protestants died and no one cares."

Nathan raised a brow. "Forgive my impertinence, Minister, but when we hear Glasgow Rangers fans chanting their delightful "Famine Song" at matches against Celtic, it sometimes seems the blame for that lies at your own feet. And even that is overlooking my own personal disgust at your obsession over which religion they were. Surely, they were human beings, first and foremost."

At first, he thought he had gone too far. But the Minister was back in deep thought before delivering an even-handed answer.

"True, of course, my tribe has turned the catastrophe into a political football – literally in the example you highlighted – as much as Sinn Fein and the IRA. Those hooligans miss the point and are uneducated about their own history. They do not represent Protestants as a whole. But, my point still stands. Protestant victims are forgotten. When that memorial was put up, the Reverend and I wished to attend and perform the rites befitting a protestant sermon for the dead, alongside the Catholic Priest. Yet, they would not have it. Do you see what I mean? Prejudice, in this province, goes both ways."

Nathan thought on it for a minute. "All right, that was underhand. But they are remembered. Surely that's better than nothing?"

How easy it was for even the greatest of catastrophes to be turned into fodder for political one-upmanship. Nathan found himself agreeing only to bring the distasteful matter to a close. He turned to look out of the window, breathing a sigh of relief when he noted the road signs in Gaelic.

"When did we cross the border?" he asked. "I didn't see anything."

"There is nothing to see," replied the Minister, with another sigh. "There isn't a physical border to speak of. There never has been and, God willing, there never will be. We're well into County Monaghan now, though. Must be some ten miles past."

Nathan relaxed again, letting himself unwind. "You must remember Monaghan well from when the UVF blew it up and killed scores of innocent people."

Harry had told him to needle the man at opportune moments. Although, as soon as he said it, he wondered whether it wasn't so much needling, but pummelling. However, the Minister's expression merely darkened.

"Careful, now," he warned, darkly.

"Then there was Dublin, too. How many killed in that explosion, Minister?"

For a long moment, Kyle McCracken fixed Nathan with a calculating look. A smile spreading across his face. "And who stood by and let the Dublin and Monaghan bombs happen, I wonder?"

Touché, Nathan thought to himself. "You need evidence-"

"Oh, so you know what I'm talking about then? You didn't need me to spell that one out!" Kyle retorted. "Collusion between Loyalist Paramilitaries and the Crown Security Forces is an inconvenient fact for you people. Especially now, in this new age of tolerance and understanding where no one is allowed to offend anyone else – never bloody mind blowing them up. Things were done differently, back then. Rules were bent. Lines were there to be crossed, not towed. And let's be honest, I don't think your dirty little secrets would have stood you in much stead back then, either."

Nathan recalled what Harry had told him before he left that morning: that getting people riled meant he was succeeding in getting under their skin. So he slouched a little lower in his seat and continued to enjoy the ride through the Irish countryside.

"If you'd looked into me properly, Minister, you would see that I have no dirty secret," he pointed out, casually. "Why, only last night my boss – Sir Harry, who you met this morning – was asking after my boyfriend's health and congratulating me on my progress since kicking drugs. You see, the big difference is, despite all that, I never actually killed anyone. So when we're talking about who got the bigger second chance in life here, I think you win hands down every time."

Finally, he succeeding in cracking the First Minister.

"I found the Lord after what I did-"

But Nathan cut him off. "Why is God always hanging around jail cells? You people are always finding her there. Anyone would think it sat well with the Parole Board, or something!"

He grinned at the Minister's incredulous reaction.

"_Her?"_ he repeated. "You know, I wish I had met you when you were still an addict. I think I would have liked you better before the holier than thou attitude sunk in."

"But, if I had met you when you were still a terrorist, would I have made it as far as I have in this conversation?" he asked, innocently.

The Minister sighed heavily. "That's just something you're going to have to ponder for the rest of your days."

"Shame," replied Nathan. "Nothing will change the facts of who we are."

"I didn't say anything to the contrary," the Minister said. "I'm a terrorist; you're a sodomite. I'll be sure to give you a wave when we're passing in hell."

As they spoke, their journey continued at a greater pace. They had been on one motorway, but had to turn off it again due to an accident. Now, they were speeding through open countryside having just passed Cavan town, heading towards central Ireland and, eventually, Dublin itself. The way was flat and clear, with no sign of further obstruction. Recalling Harry's advice once more, Nathan decided to ease off the Minister and let him simmer for a while. Meanwhile, he turned to watch Ireland zooming past his window in an emerald blur. Naturally, he was recording everything for Harry to go over once he returned from the Dail. Every so often, he could feel the gaze of the Minister boring into him, but he remained silent.

"So, what was this emergency that Sir Harry spoke of this morning?"

"Need to know," Nathan murmured, still looking out of the window.

"And we're going to pass the remainder of this journey in a sulk, are we?" he asked again, tilting his head in wonder.

"I'm not sulking!" Nathan countered, turning his full attention to the Minister. "But we are having a few problems with some of your old colleagues in the UDA."

Before he could go any further, Nathan's phone rang. He dragged it out of his pocket in a hurry. Harry's name flashed up on the screen and he jabbed the answer button quickly, cutting off any reply from the Minister. Without a moment's hesitation, Harry's frantic tones sounded from the other end of the line: "There's a bomb under the car; get out now and run!"

Cursing heavily, Nathan reacted swiftly and pounded on the driver's partition window. "Stop the car! Stop the car now!"

Immediately, the brakes were slammed, throwing Nathan forwards, almost into the Minister's lap. But he pulled himself up quickly and kicked open the passenger door before the vehicle had even properly halted.

"It's a limpet mine, isn't it?" the Minister asked, rhetorically. "Shit!"

The car stopped perilously close to a grass verge, meaning they had to squeeze themselves out before running to the other side to try and help the driver who was struggling with his seat belt. Both Nathan and the Minister were wrenching on the door handle and shouting at the man to try kicking it open from his side of the door.

"Damn windows are bullet proof!" The Minister snapped as his briefcase bounced off the windscreen without as much as a dent of damage done.

Finally, the man burst free, swearing loudly as he emerged. Without wasting another precious moment, Nathan and the Minister ran full pelt down the asphalt and vaulted a low metal barrier just as the deafening explosion rent the air around them. All Nathan could feel was the dull thump as he was thrown forwards, hitting the ground with a searing pain in his leg.

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><p><strong>Thanks again for reading; reviews would be lovely if you have a minute.<strong>


	11. Friday, Bloody Friday

**Thanks again to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. Thank you.**

**Bloody Friday really did happen. I've taken the sequencing, times and locations of all 26 bombs from eye-witness testimony as recorded in Peter Taylor's book "Provos: the IRA and Sinn Fein" and BBC Northern Ireland's 2012 documentary "Bloody Friday". The characters are fictional.**

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><p><span><strong>Chapter Eleven: Friday, Bloody Friday.<strong>

**Friday, 21****st**** July, 1972. Belfast City, 2.10pm.**

The afternoon shifts were always quiet, for Eileen Travers. Especially hot, sunny afternoons like this one. A rare event in Northern Ireland, but the summer was fast becoming a stifling heatwave. No. It was the quiet, small hours of the morning when the desperate, the lonely and the hopeless souls of Belfast hit rock bottom and dialled Eileen's number in one final, last ditch attempt to reach out to another human being. And Eileen prided herself on always being there to answer those calls; to be the faceless voice on the other end of the line, talking and coaxing people through the darkest hours of their lives. Her family couldn't understand it; her husband couldn't even bear to hear her talking about it. But the Samaritans had been her calling.

So she was appreciative for the dull hours, when no one was considering topping themselves. It felt like everyone was happy. To pass the time, she tidied up the drop-in room and made sure the tea and coffee was at full capacity before setting the kettle to boil for herself. It was as she carried the steaming mug into her small room that the phone rang. As always, her heart pounded as she rushed to answer it. Sometimes, people only called her after they had swallowed a bottle of pills; or their wrists were already open and their lives were draining away down the plugholes. Most couldn't even talk when they called, so she would sit there and say silly, inconsequential things just to break the ice and win their trust. Every call was different; every person unique.

"Hello, this is the Samaritans," she answered in her soft, lilting voice. "Do you need somebody to talk to?"

The man on the other end wasted no time. "This is P. O'Neil. There's a car bomb parked outside Smithfield Bus Station in a blue Vauxhall; registration AZ185K."

This had happened before, as well. The paramilitaries called helplines and companies they knew would have no traces on the line. But still Eileen's heart raced. "Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!" her mind screamed at her as she scrabbled for a pen and paper to note down the bomb warning. Outwardly, she kept her cool.

"Please can you repeat that and tell me when the bomb is due to detonate?"

Her hands were shaking; heartbeat racing as the line went dead. Shocked, she listened to the hum of the disconnected line for a moment as it all sank in.

"Shit!" she cried out, a second later. It was a hopelessly inadequate warning.

She stabbed at the button to make another call, before dialling 999.

"Car bomb!" she shouted at the operator. "Car bomb outside Smithfield Bus Station! He didn't say when it would detonate, but gave the name P. O'Neil. He gave me the reg, but wouldn't repeat. I think it was AK888 something…. Oh, shit I don't know!"

"It's okay, madam, we're sending a team over there now."

With that, the phone line went dead as the emergency line was cleared. Eileen leaned back in her chair, trying to get her breath back. In her head, she placed her family: the kids in summer school; husband in work at Eastwood's Garage; parents at home. No one near Smithfield. All the same, she reached over to the radio and switched on the news as already reports of the explosion came.

Kyle McCracken directed the hose at the small fire burning in the outhouse. The bomb had gone off in an enclosed yard, causing a mass of damage to the building itself, but there were no human fatalities. He breathed a sigh of relief as the flames were swiftly doused, enabling the RUC men to take over and gather what evidence they could. He nodded at the Constable in charge as he returned to his colleagues in the Fire Service. Even the buses pulling into Smithfield had not been delayed. It was all very superficial, by bomb standards.

"All right, boss?" he asked, looking up at the man behind the wheel of the fire engine. "I think that's it, isn't it?"

"Happy days, son," the boss replied, cheerfully. "See, it's not that bad is it? Nothing to be nervous about."

Kyle raised a smile as they reeled in the hose. He was relatively new to the fire service. So far, he'd doused one chip pan fire, rescued a cat and cut an injured driver free from a wrecked car. It hadn't been too bad at all, but this was his first ever bomb. His second bomb came precisely six minutes later, causing he and his colleagues to flash each other a worried look at the surprising turn of events before rushing back into their engine.

"Brookvale Avenue, now!"

The boss called out as the siren screamed into life and they pulled out at full speed. Before they even made it to the site of the second bomb, the third had detonated at York Road railway station. They stopped at York Road, seeing as they were passing it anyway as the bomb went off. The force of the explosion almost tipped their engine over. By the time they got there, people were running, screaming from the carnage and the roof had caved in completely. Thick palls of smoke rose into the clear blue skies, blotting out the summer sun.

Two minutes after they arrived at York Road, bombs had exploded also on the Crumlin Road; two more exploded at the same time on Oxford Street and Great Victoria Street, at precisely 2.48pm. Two minutes later, the Ulster Bank on Limestone Road had been hit, too. By 2.52, the railway station on Botanic Avenue had been bombed, along with the Queen Elizabeth Bridge and the Liverpool Ferry Terminus. Kyle's team were being sent to each and every site, but they had no hope of dousing the flames of one before the other was hit. Pandemonium reigned as people fled. He could see them, running from one bomb site and straight into the path of another explosion; human beings engulfed in thick black smoke as another bomb detonated. The air was filled with screams of the injured punctuated with crisp, sharp explosions; the blood of the dead, soon flowing down the gutters. Human entrails blasted through railings, entwined like vines round metal bars. The city turned into a slaughterhouse.

Kyle felt himself spinning round and round on a carousel of carnage as they raced from bombsite to bombsite. On one site, he had to hose the remains of a human head off a wall, before finding a torso lying in the middle of the street. Between 2.57pm and 3.05pm, another seven bombs had exploded across the city, bringing the total to seventeen. The eighteenth bomb was the Cavehill Road, closely followed at 3.12pm with a nineteenth at Eastwood's Garage on the Donegal Road.

Dazed; numbed, Kyle and his team raced over to the garage, where they helped shovel human meat into clear plastic bags before attempting to douse the flames engulfing the building. _It's just meat_, Kyle told himself, _only meat_. That was it. There was nothing even recognisably human about the scorched flesh they were shovelling up. But it stank like burning pork. A woman lay dead on the pavement outside the garage, her skirt riding up her bloodied thighs, revealing white underpants. Kyle rearranged her clothing so she would not be ashamed; a small, pitiful act to try and restore some dignity to the dead.

After the Eastwood's bomb, came two more at 3.15pm on the Stewartstown Road and a railway footbridge. Five minutes after that, the Lisburn Road railway station was blown up and, at 3.30pm, the twenty-sixth bomb detonated on the Grosvenor Road. The explosions shook the entire city, the earth literally trembling beneath Kyle's feet; the endless smashing of glass as device after device sucked in the oxygen to create a deadly vacuum.

Across the city, the air was filled with smoke and dust from bombed out buildings; the sirens screamed mercilessly as emergency vehicles sped from one place to another. Doctors, nurses, paramedics, police and firemen dug through the rubble with their bare hands; some bloodied and caked in filth, but still they searched for survivors of the day's atrocities. War-hardened British soldiers prowled through the streets, guns trained in every direction did their best to marshal terrified citizens to safety – only to realise there was no safe place. Belfast was a warzone and the explosions came from each and every direction.

Kyle McCracken stayed in the city centre until the last fire had been doused. By that time, a strange silence settled over the city that now lay in ruins. Like him, it felt empty, voided and traumatised. He returned to the fire station, where his frantic girlfriend was waiting to take him home. Their route took them past several sites where the bombs went off, including some of the ones he couldn't get to as they happened. The ambulance crews were still there, even in the early hours of the morning. They got home to catch the news on TV, where the wife of one of the people killed was being hassled by BBC reporters for a statement. Eileen Travers, whose husband Kyle himself had scraped off the road outside Eastwood Garage, turned her tearful, mascara streaked face to the camera, and pleaded for the violence to end. Before her worried family could bundle her away, the newly made widow had one more thing to say: "To the bombers, I want you to know, for the sake of peace in this land: I forgive you."

_You stupid, naïve bitch_, Kyle thought to himself.

The Reverend, who he had dismissed as a trouble making demagogue, was absolutely right. The IRA would not stop until every Protestant was human mush, strewn across the streets of Belfast in a bloodied heap. He knew it; he could see it now. This was a war and Catholics were their enemy. He could point his fire hose at all the bombsites in the city, and make not one jot of difference. Or, he could point a gun at a Catholic's head and stop another bomb altogether. As the news cameras cut from the grieving widow to the recordings of exploding bombs, he knew what he would do next. He would join the scores of other young protestant men, flocking to the UDA and the UVF.

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><p>Forty years on from that most brutal of days, Kyle McCracken placed one hand on the shoulder of a young MI5 officer, kneeling beside the dead body of another bomb victim. Nathan jolted out of his reverie, letting the dead man's wrist fall limp to the road. A few minutes previously, he was their driver. Although clearly still struggling with the driver's sudden transition from living human being to dead meat, lying in the road, Nathan was still in command of his senses.<p>

"There's no pulse," he said, looking up the Minister desperately. "He was right behind us. I don't understand…"

"You've got to leave him," said the Minister. "He's gone."

They had lost their phones in the explosion and they had no idea where they were. What was left of their car was now engulfed in flames and releasing a cloud of smoke and petrol fumes that made their eyes water. But still Nathan knelt by the dead driver. Eventually, he removed his coat and laid it over the dead man's face before struggling to his feet. The First Minister extended his hand, helping him up.

"We need a new car," he stated, blankly.

The Minister laughed. "Seriously?"

To his relief, the agent laughed too. The uncomprehending shock broke as he smiled, the first sign the trauma was beginning to break and he would soon bounce back. Next, was keeping him busy.

"Come on then, 007, what's next? What's the plan?"

Nathan drew a deep breath, scratched his head as he looked both ways along the deserted country road and set off back the way they had come.

"We'll go this way, find a car to hotwire and come back this way," he explained. "We can't leave the body behind, so we can pick him up then continue to Dublin."

"So, we're off to meet the Taoiseach in a stolen car with a body in the boot?"

Nathan's expression darkened into a frown of consternation. "That's really bad, isn't it?"

"I think it's fucking hilarious," the Minister replied, setting off down the road with Nathan in tow. "But then, I'm used to this place."

"Used to it?" Nathan asked.

The Minister merely smiled. "I was a fireman before I was a terrorist," he pointed out. "I've seen my share of bombs."

It felt strange to him. As Bloody Friday unfolded, the adrenaline had kicked in so heavily he felt like he was moving through someone else's nightmare, or in some Hollywood disaster movie. It was only afterwards that the small details came back to him: the way the explosions resounded across the city, followed by the seemingly endless tinkling of thousands of shards of glass falling through the air; the way the earth shook…. The way human innards lay blasted across the streets. Every sound, smell, colour and detail was as alive in him today as it was forty years previously. Sometimes, if he walked down Belfast high street on a warm summer's day, he could hear them going off; could hear the screaming sirens and the smell the burning flesh. To this day, the smell of cooking pork made him vomit.

"Well, all right then," he ceded. "Maybe you never really do get used to it. But at least there's a car looking lonely up the road, there."

Nathan paused in the road, following the line of the Minister's gaze. A lone Ford Escort that looked at least twenty years old was sitting by the side of the road, at the edge of some woods. Someone walking their dog, probably. They didn't have time to hang around and find out.

"Here goes," said Nathan, nodding to the vehicle. "I'll put out the back window, keep the glass off the front seats."

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><p>Stormont was a grand old building. All limestone sourced from Devon and faux-Roman architecture, mixed with a little Victorian gothic. Huge and sprawling, set in even more huge and sprawling grounds. A drive way that was almost a mile long led through beautifully cultivated lawns and columns of trees, now burnished amber and scarlet – the colours of autumn. Harry took it all in from the top of the hill, from where he could look out over the whole city of Belfast.<p>

The famous steps leading up the Parliament building themselves proved somewhat disappointing. Despite all those famous photographs of politicians posing on them as they entered ground breaking talks were actually gated and bolted closed, barring access. They were just an elaborate prop. Harry shrugged inwardly and set off at a leisurely pace through the grounds. At that hour, they were empty with the exception of a few dog walkers. All the political action had been transferred to Hillsborough, so not even stray journalists hung around in an attempt to sniff out a story.

He passed the statue of Edward Carson, pausing to look up at it. Set at the top of the hill, he was posing as though sticking his middle finger up at the entire city. But then, Harry surmised, that was the general function of the original Stormont Assembly, all those decades ago. Walking on, he paused every so often to take in other features. A river even ran through the grounds of the estate. Another statue, of a woman on bended knee named "the Gleaner", meant nothing to Harry. After her, came a memorial to all those killed in the Somme. Just a simple, uncomplicated plaque set in a quiet area of the grounds. Further on, however, was the spot he was looking for.

Sitting down on a wooden bench overlooking the large water feature, Harry turned his attention to the sculpture set in the middle, on a round stone platform. Two figures, a man and a woman, on their knees and embracing across a divide of barbed wire, their bronze heads buried in the other's shoulder. Stones were scattered around the base, half-submerged in water, with the names of cities engraved on them: Hiroshima, Coventry, Berlin and Belfast. The plaque bore just one word: "Reconciliation".

"Is this thing poisoned?"

Suddenly jolted out of his reverie, Harry whirled around to find Sean Mallon brandishing an umbrella at him. It was his umbrella, the one he left at the Crown Bar the day before. Someone had clearly been dusting off the James Bond box sets.

"If it wasn't before, I bet it is now," he retorted.

Reunited with his umbrella, Harry made room for Mallon on the bench.

"Thanks for the warning," he said.

"Did you get the Minister and your man out?"

"We're not sure; we lost contact with them," Harry admitted. "But all the same, we appreciated the warning."

The talks hadn't even properly begun yet, but they had lost one agent and now, possibly, a second. For a long moment, the two men sat in silence. But the newcomer could tell the other was lost in self-recrimination.

"You had to get him out of that car, Harry," he said. "Even a mobile phone signal is enough to set those mines off. If they got stuck behind someone using a phone in their car, it would have blown there and then."

Harry sighed heavily. "But I had to call him on his mobile, otherwise it was a case of letting them continue in the hope they didn't run into a mobile signal. The car would have blown to the moon as soon as they reached Dublin."

"All this new technology has opened many doors when it comes to messing with the heads of people like you, I'm afraid," Mallon pointed out.

"So who was it? The Real IRA?"

Mallon nodded. "There's more dissident Republicans than we know what to do with. But the Real IRA are the main ones. They're the same as the Continuity IRA, so don't let that throw you off the scent."

After that morning's attack on the First Minister, all known cells were under renewed surveillance. Harry had organised it with the Chief Constable and Special Branch that morning. He had also been handed some files on UDA and UVF cells still active in the Province. He took one in particular out of his briefcase and handed it to Mallon.

"Andrew Gillan," he said. "Any ideas who he is?"

Mallon glanced down at the file in his hands, studying the picture of the middle aged man on the front. He was about their age, maybe a little older.

"He's UDA," stated Mallon, flatly. "I know we're all paramilitaries, but we don't all live in a big house together, Harry."

"You must admit, that would be an interesting sharing arrangement," Harry replied. "Of course, I'm perfectly aware that you're diametrically opposed to the UDA, but you know who their commanders are, surely?"

The Ulster Defence Association were active across the whole province, and had been since the early seventies. They had carried out assassinations of IRA men, left bombs in Catholic areas and organised shoot-outs in Catholic businesses. Regardless, it had taken the British Government until August 1992 to declare them an illegal terrorist organisation. A small fact not lost on Sean Mallon, who gestured to the file in his hand, holding up so Harry could see it.

"You could have had all the information you needed on this character if you'd woken up to the UDA sooner," he pointed out, not bothering to disguise the anger in his voice. "Did you think they were on your side? Did you think they were like you: fighting for Queen and Country?"

Harry kept his own irritation in check. "Of course not. But listen, I am just one man and I did all I could to get the UDA proscribed and it was my analysts who compiled the relevant reports that finally succeeded. However…" he paused, couching his terms. "Because of our slow reactions, we are somewhat lacking on the intelligence front."

Twenty years had passed since their paramilitary status had finally been achieved. But the delay was still being felt. Meanwhile, Mallon handed back the file with a sigh.

"I can ask around," he said. "But you have to understand, the IRA have no contact with the Loyalist paramilitaries directly. I doubt there's anyone on my side of the fence who can help."

It was as Harry suspected, meaning Ros and Lucas' proposed infiltration of the East Belfast UDA was their only option. With that, their meeting ended and they went their separate ways once more. Harry continuing down the length of the driveway, where his car was waiting; Mallon, back towards Stormont, where a Sinn Fein delegation was beginning to assemble before the talks began that evening. Harry shuddered to think what could go wrong once the talks actually began properly – something dependent entirely on the survival of the First Minister.

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><p><strong>Thanks again for reading, and reviews would be welcome if you have a minute. It's highly unlikely I'll be able to update again before the Christmas, so have a great holiday. Thank you.<strong>


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